


Monsters to Laugh At

by aradian_nights



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Dubcon Kissing, F/F, F/M, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied Underage, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 76,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aradian_nights/pseuds/aradian_nights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of a Talon, a Cat, a Spoiler, and a Ghost- and their valiant efforts to put an end to the lone ward of Bruce Wayne: Jason Todd. AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Waiflike Talon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adorable_pragmatism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adorable_pragmatism/gifts).



**{the waiflike talon}**

_-A child destined to be a plaything for men—such a thing has existed; such a thing exists even now-_

Gotham City was brimming with thieves and murders and monsters. It was festering from the inside out, bleeding itself dry and choking itself on smog and smoke. And it was dying. Its cracks were gleaming on its surface, and its underbelly was a rotting, stinking corpse that was only just invisible to the naked eye. But it was easy to sniff out the death in Gotham. It was everywhere, and it was watching.

In all honesty, he wished he could go blind. He hated watching. He saw too much, and too much gave him over to the demons lurking inside his mind. Those demons were feathery and black, lulling him, enticing him with sweet, lying memories, and once the demons caught hold of him, they sunk their talons deep into his chest, and refused to let his heart go.

He feared sleep, because he knew that the nightmares were uncontrollable. And they disapproved of the night terrors. What weakness was this? To be scared in slumber was to be a fragile child. He was neither fragile, nor a child. He had been once, though.

He hated to remember. It felt like a lie to recall the sweet crooning of a carnival tune, the wafting scent of popcorn and peanuts resurfacing in his crooked, crooked head. He remembered feeling alive, feeling light and so, so, so  _happy_  it hurt. He remembered feeling alive. Now, he wasn't so sure what  _living_  was. He remembered people, a man and a woman, and he remembered their touch, gentle and soft and comforting, squeezing and loving. He had long since wiped their faces from his mind. When he remembered them, they were nothing but hazy figures, running fuzzy fingers through his hair, loving him with muffled words and laughter. It all sounded like lies.

His sharpest memories were of when he had first arrived. They'd been relatively kind. At first. They gave him food, a room, some semblance of comfort. They got him to trust them. Love them. And he did. But only after they broke him. And now he could only keep loving them, because he didn't have anything left in him to give. He wanted life, but he'd been dead for a long, long time. And they'd done that to him.

They had pushed him far in his young life. At ten, he'd been forced to complete a labyrinth. Inside the labyrinth were creatures he still could not fathom, and they had gnawed at him, attacking him in the night when he'd been curled in corners, clutching a knife to his chest and praying, and they made off with bits of his flesh, sometimes even bits of bone they'd chewed off, and he could hear their teeth gnashing in the darkness as they fed off him little by little. He recalled slaughtering them eventually, gutting them and using them to feed himself when he'd all but withered from starvation. After that, he'd found himself different. Hardened. He wasn't the same boy who had been ripped away from a circus. He was a monster, a savage that was only concerned with survival. He'd placed himself in a state of mind that forbade him from being weak. And by the time a month had passed, he found another human. He'd been scared then, and when he was scared instinct took over. It had been easy to gut the man. He wasn't fast or strong or anything, but he'd attacked, and retaliation had only been the rational choice. Horror had graced him after looking upon the man's corpse, and he found that he couldn't stand himself anymore. He'd gotten out, but not without losing a bit of himself. After that, they'd made him drink from a fountain that fed black water into an underground stream, and he'd greedily drained the goblet.

He'd grown dizzy. He remembered the feeling. He remembered staring up at them with wide, terrified eyes, and the goblet had slipped from his grasp, bouncing off the hard marble ground. Dark cloud crept at the corners of his vision as his veins pumped poison, and his head was filled with blood and then drained of all weight. He struggled to stay standing, swaying and holding his head in his hands, gaping openly at them.

"What…?" he choked, falling to one knee before them. He genuflected before the Court, and they smiled. "What did I drink…?"

He felt hands on him as his vision went black, and everything in him had left him.

He'd awoken to the demons. He'd awoken to talons. In his ear, in his head, and when he looked in the mirror, he saw the demon staring back with dead blue eyes, inky black feathers falling limply, and talons growing long and lethal. He'd broken that mirror long ago.

To say he was immortal was a lie. True, he could withstand a lot. They'd beaten the willpower out of him when he was eleven, a green boy with dying dreams. They did things to him he still could not stand to think about. There were patches in his memory, and he often prayed that the holes inside his mind would never fill. Else he might truly lose any semblance of sanity he had left.

His training had been rigorous. Every day was a new horror, and every night was a dance with owls. He learned his courtesies. He learned that the Court was like a great mummer's show. He knew how to lie and please and jump when told to do so. It was just another show. Pleasing was second nature for the circus boy. And oh, how he pleased.

By the time he was thirteen, he was Talon. There was no circus boy left, only black feathers, black talons, and a black heart. But perhaps, if he searched himself, he could find fragments of a boy who had loved and loved and loved so much that the world had to rip away everything he loved in order to silence him.

When he was released into the night, that was when he felt the freest— and the least like himself. He ran across rooftops, or sank into alleys, invisible to the world around him. No one thought he existed. He was someone else's nightmare, and that was almost funny. He knew that he was just a legend that people told their kids at night to scare them. It was stupid, but also smart in the oddest of ways. Because they knew of him. They just could not possibly believe he existed. He existed in a nursery rhyme. It was fitting.

Often when he went out to do what he was bid, he saw the great Batman. He sometimes stopped to watch, a trickle of awe sliding down his chest like ice down his throat. He breathed out and in, feeling numb as he wondered and thought and despaired, and then left his mark upon the throat of some poor soul. The Batman didn't know he existed, and it was better that way. But it gave him the strangest pleasure to watch the Bat flit through the night.

_We're alike_ , he thought dazedly, watching the man fight from above.  _Only… he fights to save people. I fight to kill them_.

It made him so sad, he couldn't bear the truth. He didn't want to be this thing, this nursery tale that mothers told their children in the night to keep them from wandering out alone. He didn't want to be a killer, but it was all he was now, and that left him scared and raw and searching. Little things in life made him happy. The distant laughter of children, teenagers, smiles to no one, a dreamless sleep. And watching Batman fly. That was a treat.

He did as they bid him. He never asked questions. At first, it hurt, but only vaguely. He didn't feel much pain anymore. When he killed, there was a twinge, a pinprick of guilt. But he could not be bothered by it. Not when the Court had such high expectations of him.

If he was to say he loved the Court, than it was true. If he was to say the Court loved him, it was only half a lie. They  _enjoyed_  him. They thought him amusing, and talented, and they loved what potential he had. They were drunk on the thrill that  _they_  had him. He was such a beautiful specimen, wasn't he? They sometimes told him that, petting his hair as they played their intricate roles in manipulating Gotham to their liking. They spoke to him, but he rarely spoke back. He was scared to.

He was theirs. Body and soul, he was the Court's creature, and they did with him as they pleased, sent him out to reap the night, and held him close in their clutches, their eyes always on his back. They owned Dick Grayson. And sure, he loved them.

But love and hate were all the same in the Court of Owls.


	2. The Inquisitive Kitten

**{the inquisitive kitten}**

_-In order that a human toy should succeed, he must be taken early-_

At a very young age, Tim Drake had to learn what it was to be alone. He never minded too much. He had books, and television, and video games, and a nanny that was only there to make sure he had food, but otherwise was half-invisible. He tried not to feel too lonely. In fact, the only time he felt truly alone was when his parents were home.

It had been Christmas. And Tim was alone.

He'd fallen asleep clutching a card from his parents, who were in Amsterdam for one reason or another. Tim had to tack off Amsterdam on the map in his room, standing on tip toes to reach it— yet another place he had to go that his parents had visited without him.

 _One day_ , he thought, staring upon his wall with big, wondering eyes.  _One day I'll see it all, and they'll be stuck at home with postcards and vague reminders that I love them_. Tim loved his parents so much it hurt. It hurt, because he wasn't sure if they loved him too. And he was bitter, so bitter that he never answered their letters, and sometimes he'd let the phone ring when he knew it was them calling.

Christmas, and he'd been asleep on the couch. Mrs. Mac had helped him buy the tree, but he'd been the one to decorate it. The ornaments were things he'd bought by himself, bulbs of red and gold, a few Mickey Mouses and a Sherlock Holmes and an obscure pokemon that he couldn't even recall the name of, but it was so  _cool_ , he'd just gotten it for the fun of it.

Tim was a light sleeper. So when he heard shuffling across the carpet of his living room, he cracked an eye open. The room was dimly lit except the fire, which was still alive and crackling. It was an electric fireplace. The Christmas tree twinkled brightly, and he smiled a little at the sight of it. He had made his own Christmas cookies, and Mrs. Mac had supervised that too. She'd even eaten one, and complimented his baking! Tim had left out a plate of them, and a glass of milk for her, but he knew she wouldn't eat them. She was careful to keep her distance from Tim, and he wasn't sure why.

He looked at the table, and saw the plate was empty, and the glass was a good quarter of the way filled, almost completely drained. He blinked sleepily, confusion settling into his mind as he realized someone else was in the room. He sat up groggily, his mouth falling open at the sight of a slender figure leaning over the fireplace, reaching upward. The portrait that usually sat there was sitting on the ground beside her, and Tim could see her fingers flying against the lock of the safe.

 _A thief_ , he realized, straightening in surprise. Fear pricked him, a short sting before giddiness settled in his chest.  _She's trying to steal from us_. It was the most exciting thing to happen to him all year. He stared at her, watching her shoulders hunch, clad in a tight black suit that hugged her every curve. It was cowled, a two little points at the top of her head making her look like… well…

He slipped off the couch as quietly as he could. She seemed to be too focused on the safe to notice. And he stepped closer to her, cocking his head curiously. He knew what was in the safe. A necklace of his mother's, an antique pocket watch of his great grandfather's, made of gold, and maybe some cash, but Tim wasn't really certain how much.

It's not like his parents checked the safe, though.

"The code is zero-six-one-nine-nine-five," Tim said, watching her body go rigid, and whirl around to face him. She had goggles on her forehead, but he could see her face, shadowy as it was. She looked young, with a pretty, oval shaped face. Her eyes were wide and green, and her mouth parted. She looked like someone who had just been caught stealing.

She blinked at him, and glanced back at the safe. She gave him a short, curious look, and turned around, her gloved fingers flashing fast against the numbers. The safe gave a soft click, and opened. Tim couldn't even find it in himself to feel guilty. After all, who would know? It would be a year, maybe more, before anyone actually thought to check the safe. And he would plead ignorance to any sort of crime. Because he was bitter, and it was Christmas, and at least one person in the room would get what they wanted.

"Huh," said the woman, reaching into the safe and withdrawing the pretty jeweled necklace. It was beaded with very tiny freshwater pearls, crochet lace framing its intricate pattern, silver gleaming through around the emerald pendant. It was some sort of heirloom. Tim didn't really care. He'd never seen his mother even touch it before. The woman looked back at him, and she gave him a soft, genuine smile. "Thanks, kitten. You always help the jewel thieves that wander in?"

Tim shrugged, feeling a little nervous to speak to her. He didn't want her to think he was stupid. He understood well what he was doing, letting her steal from the safe.  _I just don't care_ , he thought. "You're the only one so far," he admitted to her. "And, besides, I'm not going to stop you by myself. I'm just a kid." He smiled up at her sweetly, and she looked surprised.

"Well," she purred, pocketing the necklace. "Aren't you the sweetest thing?"

He shrugged, glancing at the plate on the table. "Did you like the cookies?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She smiled even wider, her green eyes twinkling brighter than the emerald she had stolen. "They were delicious," she said, wiping a few crumbs from the corner of her lips. "Just as sweet as you, I think. Just melted right in my mouth." Tim knew she was amused by him. He didn't care about that either. He actually felt a lot of pride, a rush of warmth to know that someone approved, that someone cared, and he smiled back at her.

"I made them," he said.

Her eyebrows rose. "Well," she said, "aren't you a talented little thing?"

"You can have the rest, if you want," Tim said. "I'm not a big cookie person, and there's no one else around to eat them."

The woman blinked. She glanced around, and her smile fell a little. "Do…" She looked a little troubled, and she pressed her red lips together firmly as she studied him. "Do you live alone, kitten?"

He shrugged again. "My parents travel a lot," he said nonchalantly. "So, yeah, I guess. They're not supposed to come back for another month, and then they're leaving again for Sydney… and then Amsterdam again, I think, and then Brazil, and then St. Petersburg— well, you get the picture." Tim had memorized their flight plans for the next year. He was certain they didn't even recall that they were going on so many trips. "No one is going to miss that stuff, least of all me. Seriously, you should take the cookies, because I don't want to throw them away, and if Mrs. Mac finds out I went to Crime Alley just to hand out stuff at the homeless shelter again, I think she might kill me."

Her eyes were soft now, no longer quite so amused. She glanced at the safe, and plucked out the watch and a wad of cash, stashing it, and then closing the safe. "Why the hell not," she said, smirking down at him. She carefully put the painting back before he led her to the kitchen.

"So," she said, munching on a sugar cookie in the shape of a bat. He noticed she liked those, despite the fact that he'd used the Halloween cookie cutters when he'd ran out of Christmas ones. "What's your name, kitten?"

"Tim," he said, leaning over the countertop with his chin in his hands. "What's yours?"

"Shh." She pressed her hands to her lips. "It's a secret."

"I'll find out," he said, leaning back in his seat. She looked a little surprised, and she popped the rest of the cookie in her mouth, smirking.

She swallowed, and laughed. "You sound pretty confident," she said, tapping her chin with the silver claw of attached to her gloves. "Why are you so sure?"

 _You're not as inconspicuous as you think you are_ , Tim thought, smiling as he shrugged.  _And I can catch you_.

"I just think I will," he said honestly. "Why are you so sure I won't?"

"Oh," she said, hopping off the chair. "I'm not. In fact, I'm looking forward to it." She winked, and snagged another cookie from the plate, waving it at him. "Maybe you can bake for me."

"It's like, the only thing I can bake," Tim said. "But okay then."

The woman smiled, and reached over, mussing his hair gently. He blinked, his eyes widening a little. He felt warm, incredibly warm, and unbearably startled by the affection. She stepped back, wandering toward the window. "See you, kiddo," she said, popping the cookie in her mouth.

"Merry Christmas," Tim replied faintly, waving at her. That made her pause, halfway out of the window, and she looked at him as if she'd forgotten the day. Her eyes flashed, and she quickly slipped out the window, disappearing into the night.

It took Tim three months to track her down. He spent the majority of his nights sneaking out, trying to catch a glimpse of Catwoman, whose name began to surface in the newspapers. He took pictures discreetly, but he always managed to lose her before she went home. He just wanted her name, he didn't care about anything else. Even when Tim saw her kissing Batman, he found that he wasn't that surprised. He just wanted her name, and he was determined to figure it out.

Selina Kyle. She was a woman no one would expect to be a master thief, living in a sort of ratty apartment building, and she had cats always coming in and out of her perpetually open window. After knowing her name, Tim realized he had no idea what else to do. He'd done it. He knew where Catwoman lived, and he knew her name. Now what?

Tim was too shy to actually bother her, so he went home, and stopped stalking the thief. It did occur to him that he should turn her in, and he might have. If she hadn't been so nice to him, he  _would_ have. But Tim was desperate for some semblance of affection, and she'd given it to him. How could he repay that with jail?

Thoughts of Catwoman were behind Tim, and instead he focused on Batman. He kept up his nightly endeavors, but less often now that he didn't have a goal. Batman was really, really cool, but way more slippery than Catwoman had been. Tim had trouble catching him in the act of being  _out_ , let alone actually snap a photo of him. Tim had been nine when his sidekick showed up, and that had been so exciting, he'd stayed out all night trying to catch sight of the Boy Wonder.

And he did! But, like, by accident. Totally by accident. It was actually super embarrassing.

He'd been crouching on a fire escape, his peering through the bars down below as Batman and Blue Jay fought a bunch of thugs, so fluid and strong, never faltering. Catwoman was like that too, but she never really used force. She knew how to, she just didn't. Tim admired that.

It had been stupid on his part, he had to admit it, but a thug had gotten away from them, and Blue Jay had gone after him. Tim had just wanted a closer look. So he'd clambered across the fire escape, sliding himself through the bars of a balcony, and he peered through the rusty bars, gripping them tightly. He gave an involuntary squeak as they gave way, shuddering and twisting. He shrieked, his body weight sending the bars tipping forward as they budged free, and he felt his stomach lurch as he fell with them twisting and gasping in midair, the rusty bars biting into his palms as he gripped them tightly. He held on so tight, he could feel is hands begin to bleed, and his arms were aching from the shock of the entirety of his weight hanging from them. He kicked blindly, his breathing heavy and rasping and panicked.  _Oh god_ , he thought, eyes wide.  _Oh. Oh this is it_.

He screamed as the bar snapped completely, and he went tumbling down, his body sailing through the air. For the slightest moment, it was almost  _fun_. But only for a moment, and then he felt pure terror rush back, and he squeezed his eyes shut in the anticipation of impact.

He did hit  _something_. A little softer than expected but not much.

" _Oof!_ " the Boy Wonder grunted, his body splayed against the asphalt. Tim had skinned his knees and hands, but otherwise the boy had broken his fall. He flushed in embarrassment, and he gasped as the boy sat up and shoved him hard. Tim rolled off his stomach, feeling awful and stupid.

"Shit!" swore the boy. Tim's eyes widened. "He got away!"

Tim opened his mouth to choke out an apology, watching the boy jump to his feet, looking around wildly with his masked eyes. Blue Jay was a lot taller than Tim, and way better built. He wore a sleeveless, deep sapphire jerkin that buttoned all the way up to his neck, and a cape was clasped at his shoulders. When he spun around, Tim saw that the cape split at his back into two long streams of melting silver and onyx, and stitched into the back of his jerkin, over his shoulder blades were bronze wings, embroidered skillfully into the thick fabric.

"Damn it," Blue Jay muttered, running blue accented gloves through his hair. He glanced at Tim, and he sighed, stepping toward him. In panic, Tim scrambled back, eyes wide and shocked.

"Hey," the Boy Wonder said, throwing his hands into the air. "I ain't gonna hurt you. You okay?"

Tim opened his mouth, but he couldn't find his voice. Instead he nodded vigorously, his cheeks aflame. The late spring night made him feel hot and sticky, and he needed to get home to wash his cuts out before the nanny saw and actually did something about his nightly habits.

"Kay," said Blue Jay, looking toward where the thug had run off. "Good." He sounded distant, and he waved his hand at the building, not looking at Tim. "This your apartment?"

Tim stared at him, eyes growing so wide they began to hurt. He looked up, and squeaked out, "Y-yes!"

Blue Jay gave him a thumbs up, and moved forward, never giving him a second glance. "Okay, cool, get inside! It's dangerous out here!"

Tim watched his back as he left, the image of the bronze wings emblazoned on the boy's back burning into his mind.

Later that year, Commissioner Gordon came to his door. Tim had answered, blinking up at the man in surprise. He invited him in, feeling confused and nervous. What had he done?  _Oh no, what if he knows about Catwoman?_  But that was stupid. How could he? Tim had never spoken to anyone about her.

"Um," Tim said awkwardly, leading Gordon to the living room. He bit his lip, and looked up at the man. "You can sit if you want. I… I can make um, coffee, or…?" Tim wasn't even sure if the house had coffee. "Or tea." He knew there was tea somewhere.

Commissioner Gordon looked down at him, his eyes looking heavy. He took a deep breath, and he took off his glasses, wiping them on his long brown coat. "I think it might be best if you sit," Gordon said quietly. Tim swallowed, his heart sinking.

He sat quickly, looking up at the man with wide eyes. Gordon looked around, and he put his glasses back on. "Timothy—"

"Tim," he corrected.

"Tim," Gordon said, his voice very quiet. "Is there… anyone who looks after you? While your parents are away?"

Tim shifted nervously in his seat. "Uh," he said. "There's Mrs. Mac. My nanny. "

"Your nanny," Gordon said. "And where is she?"

Tim pursed his lips, and shrugged. Gordon looked down at Tim, and his face was sad and disappointed and ashamed. He sighed, and sat down across from him, pulling the chair so he was just close enough to Tim, but not to make him uncomfortable.  _Maybe she got in trouble_ , Tim thought. He wouldn't be surprised. He didn't really know Mrs. Mac that well.

"Tim," Gordon said, bowing his head. His mustache twitched a little as he opened his mouth and closed it. "Do you know where your parents are right now?"

Tim's heart sank further into his chest. "They're… supposed to be in Brazil right now. They're coming home in a week." Just missing Tim's birthday, which was in two days.

Gordon studied Tim with sad eyes, and anxiety stung at him, a horrible thought occurring to him. "Tim," Gordon said, taking his hand. "They left Brazil twelve hours ago. We were only just notified, but there was… there was a storm. The plane went down." Gordon squeezed Tim's hand, but Tim didn't feel it. He felt numb. His words sounded like white noise in his head. "They… their bodies were recovered, and are on their way here. I… I know it means nothing to you right now, son, but I'm sorry."

"Oh," Tim said. He felt dizzy. "Thank you."

And then he drew back, shaking the man's hand away. He stared up at Gordon, and his shoulders began to tremble. He clamped his hands over his mouth, muffling a sob, and turning his face away from the man. When he reached for Tim, he jumped to his feet, slipping his grasp and bolting from the room. He felt shameful and guilty, and most of all, he felt empty. He didn't even know why he was crying. All he knew was that he couldn't stop, and he couldn't breathe, and what did this mean now? What was he supposed to do? Would it be so different from before with his parents gone? He didn't know.

It ended up being much, much worse than he could have ever imagined.

His nanny wasn't an adequate guardian. And his parents, smart as they were, had neglected to put into their will what to do if Tim didn't  _have anyone_  after their deaths. Sure, he could have his inheritance. In eight years. Until then, he was stuck. And Gotham's legal system did not favor children who were stuck.

The first foster home was okay. But there were too many kids, too many mouths to feed, and so he had to be let go. The second was absolute torture. Tim was picked on relentlessly, judged for how quiet he was, how weak he looked, how rich his parents had been. Tim locked himself away inside himself, and he wished he could go home, wished and wished and wished, but there was an emptiness inside of him that grew and grew each day. He was a walking, talking machine, and when the other kids beat on him, he just turned himself off.

Until it wasn't the kids beating on him anymore.

Tim hadn't been doing anything wrong. He had just been the first one in sight. And Mr. Rheyne, well he'd been a little too drunk, and Tim had tried to tell him that the broken window had been a kid on the street, not one of them, but— well?

It hurt worse than any beating he had ever gotten. And truth be told, that wasn't many. He had never really been bullied in school, just sort of ignored. The kids here beat him, but that was small. Bloody lips, skinned knees, scratches, bite marks, bruises. Tim had learned his share, and by the time Mr. Rheyne had grabbed him by his hair and yanked him into the basement, none of the kids picked on him too much anymore. Tim had gotten stronger, and fought back. And then they left him alone. They even sort of liked him now, calling him by his name instead of prissy boy, or skinny. One of the younger girls had taken to calling him kitty, and when he'd asked why, she'd said it was because he was so quiet and smart, he was like a big kitten. It made him sad.

"Please!" Tim gasped, stumbling away from the man as he turned on the light. The basement was small, and there was a lot of junk gathered in boxes. The ground was concrete, and Tim looked around, but there were no windows, only another door. It was small, child sized. A crawlspace, maybe. "I haven't done anything!"

Mr. Rheyne was not a bad man. In fact, sometimes he could be very nice. Once he'd taken all the kids out for dinner after getting a big bonus at work, and on Christmas he'd made sure they'd all gotten presents, and that they'd all liked them. Mrs. Rheyne was a bit more pleasant, and she'd cooked for them, and for once none of the other kids complained about being hungry, and beat each other up, and it had been really, really nice, like having a real family.

A fist connected with his cheek, and he gasped, crashing into a pile of boxes. His cheek throbbed, and his head was spinning. He'd never been hit that hard before. He could feel the bruise forming already when the man picked him up by his collar, and throttled him.

"Ya think it's funny?" the man snarled, spittle hitting Tim's face, running down his cheek. The man's breath reeked of alcohol, and he smelled like smoke and beer and sweat. Tim's eyes stung with tears. "Breaking shit? Do you know…" The man's breath caught, and he slurred. "Do you  _know_  how much it costs to fix a window?"

"I… I  _didn't_ —!" Tim cried, shrieking as he was thrown to the ground, his forehead smacking against the concrete. The pain split through his skull, and he choked on a sob, blinded momentarily by tears and the throbbing of his head. "P- _please,_  I—"

The blows came faster then. Tim spat blood, twisting and kicking. That only got him angrier. Tim gasped, sinking into himself as a fist crashed down, and he was blind to it all, vainly trying to curl up, curl away, curl into himself and make the pain go away. Again and again and again, he felt the impact, and he felt his nose crunch felt his lip burst open, felt his right eye begin to swell. The world was growing hazy, and he could no longer plead.

He stopped only to prop Tim up against a box. He slapped him, and grabbed his chin, forcing him to stare up at the man. "You broke the window," the man breathed. "Did you? Did you break it? Did you?"

"No," Tim mumbled, his fat lip preventing him for speaking properly. He could barely manage to shake his head, it felt so heavy and it all hurt, everything hurt, and he just wanted to go up to his bed and sleep and never wake up. "No… not me— not— no…"

"Who?" Mr. Rheyne's eyes were lazy, dazed, and glassy. He was so drunk, Tim was sure he didn't know what he was doing. "What… little bastard—" he wheezed, and slurred some more, his voice low and breathy. " _Who did it_?"

Tim's eyes grew wide, and that hurt. "I…" His mouth dropped open. "I don't…" Blood filled his mouth, and he couldn't speak. It was all gurgles and strangled mewling.

The man's eyes flashed with anger. His nostrils flared, and he unbuckled his belt, pulling at it. Tim stared, breathing heavily.  _Oh no_ , he thought numbly. The man jerked a shaky finger at him, standing unsteadily. "Shirt," he snapped, his voice low and muffled. Tim stared at him some more, not budging a muscle. Maybe if he froze, the man would forget he was there. Fall asleep.  _Please, please, stop, please_. "Take off your goddamn  _shirt!_ "

He did. He felt chilly, the nippy winter air leaking into the poorly insulated basement. It bit at his naked skin, and he hugged his shirt to his chest, blood dripping onto it, staining it dark. Mr. Rheyne tore it from his fingers and tossed it aside. Tim couldn't help but give a slight, pitiful whimper as he was grabbed by the arm, and thrown to his hands and knees, his bony back bare to the man.

The first lash was a sharp sting of pain. The second was searing. And by the third, he cried out, pain and despair causing him to buckle. By the tenth lash, the sharp  _crack_  of the belt tore open his skin, and Tim screamed loud enough to wake the dead, collapsing. He didn't even have the energy to sob. He was silent as tears trailed down his bruised, bloody cheeks, and he was too weak to cry out when he was yanked roughly up by the arms.

He felt himself being dragged across the floor, his back leaving bloody streaks behind him. He regained some semblance of lucidity as Mr. Rheyne yanked open the door to the crawlspace. Tim let out a faint shriek, and he pulled at his arms weakly, gasping and twisting despite the shudder of agony.

"No," he pleaded, blood spilling from his mouth. The tears weren't stopping, and he choked, weeping freely. "Please, you… no, please, you  _can't_ , you—!" Tim's tiny body was shoved into the dark little space, and his forehead slammed against a support beam. Dust fell into his eyes, and the tears blinded him. The ground was soft and mushy beneath him. His vision cleared only slightly, and he sat on his hands and knees, Mr. Rheyne only a silhouette in the dim light. He looked up, his eyes big and gleaming and terrified. " _Please_!" he begged one last time.

The door slammed shut, and he was stuck in total darkness.

He'd passed out from the pain soon after, but not without trying to find a way out first. His fingers had gotten tangled in spider webs, and he was pretty sure he'd gotten bitten by a few. He shuddered, feeling things crawling across him, legs skittering across his bare skin in the dark. He awoke, and they were still there tickling his cheeks, spinning webs in his hair. Hours and hours and hours passed, and it was growing harder to breathe, and his stomach was growling, and he slammed his palm against the door, or maybe it wasn't the door, maybe it was something else, and it was so dark, so dark, he didn't know anymore.

He felt his leg snag once, and he thought someone was in there with him. He thought he saw a face in the darkness, a great white face with a big, snarling grin, and he shrieked and thrashed, feeling himself being yanked back, but he wasn't. Hours passed. He passed out again. He awoke, and the spiders skittered across his body, fast legs against his skin. His muscles were cramping. His wounds were aflame. And his stomach was aching so badly, he plucked a spider from his arm, feeling for it blindly, squished it between his fingers, and swallowed it whole. It tasted sticky and bitter, like blood and sour paste.

The silence was deafening. He couldn't stand it. He heard things that weren't there, he made things up, and he was so terrified, so lost and confused, he couldn't even move around to bang on the door anymore. He heard scratching in the dark. He was laying on his stomach, everything in him throbbing with pain. The scratching turned to a soft crying noise. It wasn't Tim. Tim had no tears left. His voice had left him long ago. And he stared into the darkness.

A pair of sharp green eyes stared back.

Tim screamed. He rolled onto his side, trying to kick away from the awful eyes that glowed, but he couldn't. He was stuck, and he gasped, not much air left for him, and he closed his eyes.  _Why is this happening? I don't understand, what did I do wrong? Do I deserve this? I have to deserve this, somehow, I have to, it just… it's not fair, I want to live, I want to live!_

The beast mewed. It  _mewed_. And Tim's breath caught as he felt soft, warm fur rub up against his stomach. He heard purring, and felt a paw on his leg.  _A cat_ , he thought, his heartbeat slowing to normal.  _Just a cat, oh god_.

And then another thought struck him.  _How did it get in here?_  It was his ticket out. His eyes widened, and he felt a spark of hope. He struggled onto his knees, and he felt along the walls, his fingers getting caught between boards. He felt the cat beside him, pawing at his pants. He didn't know how he was struggling on his knees, but he was. He felt lightheaded, dizziness and nausea creeping at him, and his head was pounding, but he kept searching. He felt a gap between boards. He bent down, and he stuck his hand through. His fingertips dragged across something long and thick and gnarled, like dewy hair.  _Grass_ , he thought, feeling giddy with shock and adrenaline. The crawlspace was at an incline, and he'd crawled up. He could feel it now.

He took a deep breath. He braced his back against the boards behind him. What he was going to do next could potentially kill him. But he found he didn't care. If it caved, it wasn't like anyone was coming for him anyway. He was as good as dead already. He took a deep breath, feeling a little sick from the spider he'd eaten. He ignored it, and he kicked. He kicked hard, and he kicked again, and again, and he felt the wood give. He kicked with everything in him, every ounce of strength he had. And it broke.

He slid forward, his body wriggling through the gap faster than he thought possible, and he grasped the support beam to fling himself into the frigid Gotham night. His back fell against the grasp, and he heaved, gasping and rasping, breathing in the cool fresh air. Everything was still black.  _Did I go blind_ , he thought frantically. He was still heaving, tears coming to his eyes again. He hurt all over, and he was crying, and he still felt as though there were spiders all over him. But he laughed. He was laughing, tears running down his cheeks, and he blinked dazedly as he listened to the crawlspace cave in behind him. His heart hammered in his chest, and he laughed some more.

He saw the moon. The sight of it made him cry some more. He was weak, but he was smart.  _If I stay here, I'll just get beaten again_ , he thought.  _I'll die if I stay_. It was a struggle to get to his feet. But he did. He saw something bolt past him, and he saw that it was the cat. It paused to look up at him, green eyes glowing in the darkness. Tim stared at it, and he bit his bloody lip, watching it run away from him.

He stumbled forward, his legs nearly giving out beneath him. Saying the first step was the hardest was a lie. But after it, he felt the need to keep going.  _A little farther_ , he told himself, moving as fast as he possibly could.  _And then I'll rest_. He didn't rest. He didn't stop. He kept walking, feeling like a zombie wandering through the streets. But he knew Gotham. And he found himself standing outside that stupid, ratty apartment building by the time dawn broke, drawing trickles of light across the smoggy Gotham skyline.

He didn't know what he was doing there. He could have gone to the police. He had enough proof on his person to suggest child abuse, and he could show the caved in crawlspace. But then, if he went to the police, who was to say he wouldn't be put into another foster home? And this one could be worse. He knew there were good foster homes, and he wished with all his heart that he could believe in them right now, but after what he'd just been through? He couldn't do it. He couldn't go back to that sort of hell.

Tim found Selina Kyle's name next to a pale button. He pressed it, and it buzzed. The sound was piercing to Tim, and he coughed, scratching at his skin until it began to peel. He felt as though there were something crawling under his skin. For all he knew, there could be. He bit his lip as he waited, winter air long numbing him. He felt sick. Cold. Dead, almost, but survival was in sight. He just needed a place to sleep. That's all, and she would have to let him, she owed him after all.

He knew it was a stupid, childish hope that a thief would shelter him. It was all he had left, though.

He pressed the buzzer again, and waited, wincing at the sound. This time, she answered, her voice groggy and sharp. " _It's six in the morning_ ," she snapped, and Tim squeaked, nearly spinning and running. He might have, if he hadn't been so weak. " _Who the hell is ringing me_?"

His voice seemed to have left him. He pressed his finger to the buzzer again, and he breathed heavily. He didn't know what to say. His mind was cloudy, and his head was throbbing, and he thought he might cry again. Tim looked up at the sun steadily rising, and he shook, eyes widening a little bit. He choked on his words, and all that came out was a soft mewing sound.

Selina paused for a moment, before she said in deadpan, " _I'm going to sleep_."

"No!" Tim gasped, lurching forward and pressing the buzzer again and again. "No, please, don't go!"

The pause was even longer this time, and it killed him. " _Who is this_?" she asked slowly.

He took big gulps of air as he tried to calm himself, but he was close to breaking down. He was close to passing out. "Tim," he breathed. "My name is Tim, please, I have nowhere else to go, and I p-promise I—" He choked on blood, and fumbled over his fat lip. "I won't bother you, I'll be gone before you know it, I just need a place to stay right now, a-and then you… you can send me away if you want, just please— my name is Tim Drake, and you… you stole from my house once, please, I gave you cookies, I— I just need…" He began to sob, and he dropped to his knees, feeling dizzy and disoriented. He curled up on the stoop, his breath unfurling in the freezing winter air.

The door whipped open, and Tim looked up, blinking profusely as he saw the woman stand there, her sharp green eyes drinking in the sight of him.  _The cat had green eyes too_ , he thought. Perhaps that had been what drove him to come to her. She looked disgruntled, her short black hair swirling around her forehead in wisps, and her clothes were only half on, her large tee shirt hanging off one shoulder, and he saw she wasn't wearing pants, just panties. He flushed, and through the pounding of his head he managed to feel guilty for troubling her so early.

"What…" Selina Kyle looked at him, and he could see she was horrified. "What happened to you?"

Tim stared up at her, and he felt ashamed. "My… I…" He began to cry again, and she dropped to her knees before him, hushing him softly.

"No, shh," she whispered, scooping him into her arms. He gasped, twisting away from her as her fingertips brushed the long, bloody whip marks on his back. "Hush, kitten, I remember you. It's going to be okay."

He was out cold before they even got through the entryway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazingly enough I wasn't even tempted to do a Joker Junior plotline for Tim. Which, you know, for me? I guess it's just less fun if Tim was never Robin to taint.
> 
> Keep in mind I don't write Selina often. Actually, this might have been the first I've ever written of her. Once again, credit to Victor Hugo for the quote.


	3. The Roguish Spoiler

**{the roguish spoiler}**

  
_-_ _We play with childhood-_   


When she was very small her mother had died. It was lung cancer, and there had been no money for treatment. She was left in her father's care twenty four-seven, and as unhappy as he was about it, he did take on responsibility. He taught her how to swipe things from stores without getting caught, taught her to be quiet and be sweet, and always use the perception people had of her against them. He taught her how to pick pockets, and cry on a whim.

And then he began to take her out into the field with him.

"Daddy," she said, feeling awkward and stupid in the bandana he had given her. She was ten, and she had thought a lot about this. When she stole things, she felt very little remorse. But only because she knew, for the most part, that they would be things that would not be missed— they were things that they needed. But this? It seemed wrong. "Daddy, maybe… well, shouldn't we… be careful?" She bounced on the balls of her feet as she watched her father work. He wasn't a bad thief by any means. Just stupid _. He's so stupid, and he never listens_. "What if the Batman catches us?"

Her father scoffed. "Quit your squalling," he spat, smacking her over the head. She grunted, stumbling a little as she watched her father lower himself into a window. They were robbing a bank. And she still wasn't sure why. "And stay here, ya hear me? You have the clue."

Of course. The stupid clue. Stephanie scowled at him as he disappeared. Her life was a series of tricks and lies, and she was there to take and take and never give back. It made her sad a lot, because she knew that she was being used for her young, innocent face, and it was easier for her to get money by pity. She knew her father constantly used her, and yet she had trouble breaking away from him. After all, didn't he love her? She thought he did, but sometimes she wondered if she was wrong. She watched the window, and she looked down at the clue.

She tore apart the piece of paper, and tossed it over the fire escape. When her father asked about the clue, she said she lost it, and he smacked her so hard blood trickled down the corner of her lip. After that, he stopped trusting her with the clues. And Stephanie was left to help him more, little by little, and soon she was inside the banks with him, and they were actually doing it, actually stealing. And they were good at it. The more she worked with him, the more they got. She was shocked and terrified at how competent they were.

And then she realized.

 _It's me,_  she thought one night, fourteen and nimble fingered. Her father had left her to do the stealing, to crack the safe and steal the money. She'd opened the safe within a few minutes. She stared into it, and looked back, her eyes wide.  _I'm better than him. I'm a lot better than him_. And she was  _proud_! She couldn't help it. There were a thousand ways that this could all go wrong, and yet, she knew how to do it right. It felt like a second nature. And she was thrilled, shot through with adrenaline as she gathered the money in a bag, and she split. She'd gotten through the security of the bank no problem, and getting out was easier than getting in.

She tossed the strap over her shoulder, climbing up onto the roof. Her suit was orange like her father's but darker, and styled with a flaring black skirt, because she'd been mistaken for a boy when she'd been younger. Her suspenders were black too, and they buckled into her belt, which was silver and studded with various compartments.

Stephanie stopped to watch her father duke it out with Batman. She stared in awe. He was so much bigger than she expected him to be, a looming figure that was a blur of shadow and wisps, and her eyes grew big as she watched the fight go on.  _Dad's not very good_ , she observed, folding her arms across her chest and cocking her head. Batman was really dealing the blows, and her father was losing. She felt a little guilty that she wasn't more concerned.

Her father caught sight of her. "Kid!" he snarled, knocked to the ground, and rolling back, bolting to his feet. "Kid, get over here!"

She sighed, jumping up onto the roof. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered. She wondered what her dad had even done to get caught so quickly.  _Who's the rookie, me or you?_  "Yes, daddy?" she asked sweetly, poking her head out from behind Batman. She froze in fear as the masked man spared her a glance.

She gasped as a leg slammed into hers, knocking her onto her back. She gasped, blinking rapidly. The backpack with the money had cushioned her fall, but barely. "Um," she gasped, staring into the laughing face of a masked boy.  _Boy Wonder_ , she thought excitedly.  _Oh, this is so cool!_  "Ow!"

"Well," Blue Jay said, his masked eyes wide as he bent over her. He didn't look much older than her, but there was something hard about his face that she just couldn't quite grasp. "Guess I swept you off your feet, huh?"

She kicked him hard, and he flipped away, looking surprised as she jumped to her feet and whirled away. "Lame!" she called back. "So lame!"

"Says a girl called Kid Clue!" he retorted. Stephanie found herself flushing.  _I know_ , she thought glumly. Her dad was pretty bad with the name thing. And the costume thing. And the everything thing.

"Kid!" her dad screamed again. She groaned, and she dug around her belt, and she pulled out a pellet. She moved to throw it, but then she paused.  _Batman will just dodge it_ , she thought. So she bit her lip, and flung herself between Batman and her father. The Dark Knight glowered at her, and she watched his feet move.  _Work, work, work_ , she prayed, tossing the pellet. She squeaked in surprise as he stepped on it, and immediately backtracked,  _feeling_  his error. But by then, his foot was already caught in polyurethane foam.

"Oh my  _god_ ," Blue Jay spluttered, sounding as though he was on the brink of laughter.

Stephanie shrieked as a batarang whizzed past her, slicing through her father's shoulder. She couldn't even look at Batman, she was so scared, and she whipped around, grabbing her father's hand and bolting. They ran faster than Steph had ever ran before, and she was exhilarated, and she was amazed, and she was  _proud_. She'd done that!

It wasn't until they got home that Steph realized her backpack was gone. "I…" she said faintly, touching her bare shoulder.  _The batarang_. It must have sliced through the strap, and she hadn't noticed. "Daddy, I  _had_  it!"

"And you let the goddamn  _Bat_  take it from you!" Arthur Brown punched her so hard, she was flung backwards into a picture frame. It fell from its hook, and shattered, and Stephanie felt tears in her eyes.  _If mom was here, would this be any different_ , she wondered, looking down at the woman's face. To be honest, she couldn't even remember what her voice sounded like. The woman in the picture was a complete stranger.

"I'm sorry, okay?" she gasped, fighting the tears. "But if it wasn't for me, you'd be on your way to jail! This isn't my fault, dad. It's yours!"

That remark had given her a black eye, a bloody nose, and a broken wrist. She'd been locked in her room for an entire day without food, or even the chance to wipe up the blood. Her wrist was throbbing, and she sat on her bedroom floor, devising a makeshift splint from tape and a broken yard stick she had stashed at the back of her closet.

 _Next time_ , she thought.  _Next time I'm not going to save him_.

And true enough, seven months later, the Bat was back. And he was angry. Stephanie knew why. They  _all_  knew why. Gotham was buzzing with the news, and she felt sick by how animated everyone seemed over the fact. Blue Jay was  _dead_ , and they were acting like it was all a party! Her dad had even had friends over, other low profile rogues, to drink over it.  _Gotham is just one big party_ , she thought, peering at them from the darkness of the hallway. They were all loud, laughing, stinking drunk.  _Especially when someone dies_.

Stephanie wished she could speak to the Bat. She wanted to tell him she was sorry, and that she knew that the little bird of Gotham had deserved more than this debacle he was receiving. It wasn't fair. But then, what was? If truth be told, her death would go unnoticed by the majority of Gotham. She had an awful, stinging feeling that she'd just be another obscure face in the crowd of Gothamites that passed in the night. And no one would care to remember her.

It went as it usually went nowadays. Stephanie did the dirty work, albeit, not without a few snags. She was only fifteen, and she was hopeless with technology at times. Luckily she didn't set off the alarm— that would have been bad. When she did manage to shut down the security, she breathed in relief.

"Woohoo," she whispered, smiling triumphantly to herself. "Go Steph."

She got the money. She double strapped the bag now, after the last incident with Batman. Everything seemed to be going fine. She was even thinking about what she was going to do tomorrow, Friday night. A boy had asked her out, but she still wasn't sure…  _Steph, focus!_  She had to remind herself, or else she'd take too much time getting out, and the security would come back on.

By the time she got outside, she had to quickly hide herself. She watched her dad spit curses at Batman as he handcuffed him to a bike rack outside the bank. She hid above, her belly flat against the fire escape, and her eyes were wide as she strained to listen.

"Where's your daughter, Cluemaster?" Batman growled, yanking down her father's bandana. That sight gave her satisfaction. Batman looked up, and Steph slid back, her breath quickening as her eyes flashed around her. What if he'd seen her?

"I don't know," her father spat. "The little bitch could be halfway to California by now, for all I know!"

Batman's eyes flashed dangerously. "Would she leave you?" Batman asked, his voice dark, shaking in rage. "What a daughter. What kind of child leaves their parent?" He sounded so angry, Stephanie was shaking in fear _. But he's not in any danger_ , she thought. She still wanted to talk to Batman, to beg him to take her away, but she knew that would just be to the police. No, she had no place with him. She had no place anywhere.

"Bastard," snarled Arthur Brown. "Just because your kid up and died, that ain't my fault. The  _Joker_ —" Stephanie muffled a gasp as she watched Batman slug her father so hard, he spat a tooth out, gasping and coughing.

"You," Batman hissed, his voice so low, Stephanie could barely hear it, "are a horrible person. But you're an even worse father."

Stephanie felt a rush of warmth. Because Batman understood. And for that, Stephanie couldn't help but love him a little. He left without checking the fire escape, and for that she loved him even more. She waited, and then climbed down, dropping behind her father as she heard sirens wail in the distance. She saw him working on picking the lock, but she knew he wouldn't get it in time.

The thought made her oddly giddy.

She untied the bandana around her mouth, and she clutched it tightly in her hand. Her heart was pounding, and so was her head, and she had ten grand in her backpack. And she felt like she could do anything. Hope was bubbling in her stomach, and she stepped up behind her father, too quiet for him to hear her. And she cocked her head.

"He's right, you know," she said. He jumped, twisting to look at her. She scowled at how relieved he looked. And she almost wanted to help him.

"Oh, there you are, baby girl," he breathed. "Help your daddy out, will you?"

"No."

The look in his eyes solidified her choice. He looked at her, and his eyes were so hard and unforgiving, she wanted to slap him. "What did you just say?" he growled.

She took a deep breath, and she flung the bandana at him. It hit his face, and fell into his lap. His eyes flashed wide with rage. "No," she repeated, feeling a little dead on the inside. "He was right. You're a horrible father. And I don't need you."

"You don't mean that," he hissed, his eyes narrowing. And she smiled. She swooped down, and kissed his cheek, spinning away before he could grab her.

"Bye, daddy!" she cried, waving at him as the sirens wailed. She disappeared into the night, just missing the cop cars pulling up to seize her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steph, pls. So I kind of took some shit into my own hands here, but it's an AU, so who cares. Steph is still a sweetie any way you spin it.
> 
> Short introduction, and I apologize for not being more thorough. Cred to Victor Hugo, and shit.


	4. The Forlorn Ghost

**{the forlorn ghost}**

_-But a well−formed child is not very amusing; a hunchback is better fun-_

He was a ghost. That was what he was often called by his grandfather, who found it very difficult to speak his name. He could not be blamed. After all, when a monster's name was spoken, bad things happened. It was the truth. Or, maybe it was not. He could not be certain, because he had trouble understanding. He was not allowed outside, and he was not allowed to speak with anyone that grandfather had not sent specifically for him.

If he must be truthful, he liked it this way. Else he might kill someone without meaning to. Not that killing was bad— grandfather made sure that he was able to kill, and that he was good at it. No, that was not it. It was the fact that he had no idea what this was, this monster that he was. If he looked a person in the eye, who was to say they wouldn't, say, turn to stone?

"I read about it," he had told his grandfather once. "About the monster who no one could look at. Medusa. Anyone who looked at her turned to stone. Am I like that, grandfather?"

His grandfather studied his pale face, and his eyes flashed away for a moment, deep in thought. Then he looked back at the little ghost.

"Yes," he said. "If anyone looks into your eyes, they will turn to stone. So do not take off those glasses. Ever."

He wore dark tinted glasses to spare the rare visitor from him, and to spare his eyes from the light. His eyes were very sensitive. He had trouble reading and writing at times, because everything was incredibly out of focus, and no matter how hard he tried he just could not see properly. Too much light often hurt him. Whenever he tried to overcome it, his grandfather got angry.

"You are a weak child," Grandfather said, looking down at him with utter disdain. "You are too frail to possibly be an heir of mine. And yet, you are all I have."

Damian felt a stir of shame and frustration inside him. And sadness. Sadness too. "But, Grandfather," he beseeched, "if I do not go outside, how will I get stronger?"

"By training."

He was good at training. But only when he stopped trying to  _see_ his opponent attacking, and relied on  _feeling_  him attack. Damian's vision was poor enough that it was more of an obstacle than anything else. He didn't rely on it much. Instead his sense of hearing was impeccable, and he felt things that others might easily miss. He could go an entire fight blindfolded, but do not ask him to search for something. It is likely he won't find it.

"But," Damian said, sinking a little in his seat. Grandfather never called for him to dine with him. He always came to Damian. "I train. I always train. I love training, but I want to go outside. Grandfather, if I am to be stronger, shouldn't I be able to go outside?"

Grandfather looked irritated. And his patience was wearing thin. His nostrils flared, and he stood, turning his back to Damian. The ghost's eyes widened, and he just couldn't fathom what he had done wrong. "If you think you are ready," his grandfather said, his voice sharp. "Then fine. I will arrange for someone to take you outside to train. But it must be a cloudy day, and you must cover your skin."

"Yes, grandfather."

Outside proved to be startling. A wake up call, really. Everything was so… so  _bright_. His eyes stung within a few minutes, and despite the fact he was covering all but his face, his skin was itching. He trained out there, but he struggled. He was distracted by the trees, the shrubbery. He fell to his knees, gasping as the sword sliced through his sleeve and flesh.

He saw his grandfather watching by the entrance to the courtyard. His eyes were disappointed. His lips were pulled into a disgusted scowl. Damian's heart sank. And then it hardened.  _No_ , he thought, pushing himself to his feet.  _No, I must become stronger. I want to be stronger, and I'm going to be stronger_. He whirled, feeling his opponent's sword whistle beside him. Damian's own sword buried itself deep into the man's chest. He felt that too. He felt the man shudder, gasp, and he felt his blood seep through the wound, blooming like a red rose across his breast.

He kicked him away, and decided he liked it outside.

"Grandfather," Damian said one night at dinner. Grandfather was coming less often now. Damian was eight. "You never told me about my father."

His grandfather looked at him with cold eyes. He set down his fork, and Damian leaned back, apprehension knotting in his stomach. "I do believe that was intentional," his grandfather said, his eyes narrowing. "What brought this on?"

"Nothing." Damian blinked in surprise. "I… merely was wondering… I mean, I know… I know that a child must have a father and a mother, that's genetics." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "But… I know nothing of my father."

"I suppose not." His grandfather's green eyes were hard and dull. As sparingly as he spoke about Damian's mother, his father had never even been broached before this moment. And Damian was so curious, he couldn't keep quiet. "Very well. What do you wish to know?"

Damian tingled with excitement, and he raised his chin high. His glasses were sliding, and he pushed them back up. "What was his name?" Damian asked eagerly.

Grandfather did not look happy. But he had known it was coming. Damian could sense that. "His name is Bruce Wayne," Grandfather said.

Damian was surprised. " _Batman_?" There was an uncertainty to learning this. He was told of the Bat, of course, but he'd never thought… "But… I thought…"

"You thought what?" He could feel his grandfather's glare, and he looked away. "Speak up, you little ghost."

"I thought that my father would be an assassin," Damian admitted. "Someone of your choosing."

"Batman was of my choosing."

That was strange to hear. He took a deep breath, and he looked down at his food. He suddenly was no longer hungry. "But if my father is Batman," Damian said slowly, "surely he doesn't know about me."

"That would be a correct assumption."

He stood up. He didn't know why he felt angry. He felt ashamed, and he felt disgusting. He was a monster, after all. Bruce Wayne would be disgusted with him too, if he ever found out. He was shaking, his white fingers grasping the edge of the table, and he bit his lip to keep himself from snapping something that would only get him a beating.

"Does he know?" Damian asked quietly. "About my mother? Does he know what happened to her?"

"What you did?" His grandfather scoffed. Damian's stomach twisted with guilt and shame and confusion.  _It's not my fault_ , he wanted to say.  _I didn't ask to be born_. "No. It's best he doesn't know. He might ask questions."

"And find me."  _And see what a disappointment I am_. He thought he might understand now why his grandfather had kept it from him. "I see."

His grandfather studied his face intently. And he looked just as disgusted as he usually did when he had to look at Damian for too long. "Do you?" he asked.

"Yes." Damian gathered his plate and utensils, and placed it in the basket his grandfather had brought to his room. He turned around toward his bed. "I'm not feeling well, grandfather. Please leave."

His grandfather seemed happy to oblige. Damian knew he hated to look at him. He was a ghost of the mother he had killed the day he was born, and a ghost of what he could have been. And Ra's al Ghul hated him for that. He hated him because he was a weak product of something so  _mighty_. And yet, looking at him? He was nothing but a very, very frail child who could barely see, let alone be the warrior he was expected to be.

Damian laid down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and he imagined life might have been like if he had been born  _normal._  If his mother had lived, if his eyes were not cursed, if his skin was warm hued and healthy, if his hair was rich and glossy and black. Instead, he was a pasty, red eyed ghost, with pallid hair and lies to feed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian's backstory is a bit different. Obviously. Aside from the fact that Talia died giving birth to him, Damian is also albino. Might not seem like a big deal until you remember that Ra's had a son that was albino. And if you're like me (most people tend to know more about comic books, but this was a huge shock to me at the time of writing this chapter) YOU HAD NO IDEA SAID SON EXISTED. Ra's al Ghul's son? What the fuck happened to him? Well, he died. I'm not even sure what his name was, the wiki just said, "White Ghost". Now, special note to Maggie. DID I CATCH YOU OFF GUARD, MOTHERFUCKER? Happy Birthday, please take this adorable white haired bby dami and enjoy his sweet innocence.
> 
> Once again, the cred goes to Victor Hugo for the quote.


	5. The Futile Bird

**{the futile bird}**

  
_-They bought children, worked a little on_ _the raw material, and resold them afterwards-_   


As a child, things had been… hard. There was a lot of things he cared not to remember. To the point where it became a problem. He tried so, so, so  _hard_  just to make the bad things go away, he could barely appreciate the good things anymore. His heart was iron, and his lungs were steel, and he wanted to lock away the memories of rapid heartbeats and screaming.

He had been twelve when he had met Batman. Twelve, and broken beyond complete healing. He liked to pretend he wasn't though. He was happy to fake happiness, and soon enough he found that he wasn't sure what the difference was between being fake and being Jason.

His mother had been terminally ill. He remembered that much. He knew she had overdosed, and sometimes he wondered if that had been his fault. He should have been watching her more carefully. He should have been there for her, but he hadn't been, and now she was gone. So what happened after that?

 _Pain_ , he thought.  _Pain, and lies_.

"I wanna fight with you," Jason had said to Bruce one night. He had been nearing his thirteenth birthday, and he was growing taller now. Alfred had to buy him new clothes a lot, because he kept outgrowing them.

The Batman thing was cool. Jason was desperate to learn more about what he did, but Bruce was reluctant to let Jason in the cave. He didn't want Jason to be mixed up in any of it, and that made Jason angry, because what? Did he think Jason couldn't handle it? He could! He was way stronger than anyone gave him credit for.

"No," Bruce said, pushing back his cowl. He sat down in his chair, ignoring Jason as he leapt up onto a platform, leaning over him expectantly. "Go upstairs, Jason, you're not supposed to be down here."

"But it's so  _cool_ ," Jason gasped, exasperated. "And, like, I never get to see you. You're always down here. So why can't I be down here?"

Bruce was a safe haven. Jason could not stand not being with him, because he was safe, the safest person he had ever met. The attachment was unhealthy, but Jason couldn't help it. His track record had dissuaded him from trusting very many men. And Bruce was nice, and he cared about Jason, and Jason just wanted to be the good son. He wanted to prove that he cared about Bruce too.

"It's dangerous," Bruce said. Jason actually laughed aloud, feeling bitter and irritated.

"I've lived out on those streets!" Jason cried, jerking his hand away from him. "Bruce, if anyone knows what's going on out there, it's me!"

"Jason," Bruce said, never looking up. "Go upstairs."

Rage and confusion spiked through him. It wasn't fair. Bruce got to go out in the streets, bang up criminals, lock them away. That was all Jason had ever wanted to do! But he'd been too weak, too small. With Batman, he wouldn't be. He'd be the strongest there ever was.

"No!" Jason slammed his open palm on Bruce's desk, resulting in a large  _bang_. Bruce looked at him sharply, and Jason felt a little triumphant. "Just— just please,  _listen_  to me! I can't stay cooped up in here every night while you go off, and— and do all this stuff that I wish I could do,  _could've_  done before, and I want to!" There were tears stinging his eyes, but they were angry tears. "You're everything I want to be, so let me try! I can do it, I know I can, please!"

He'd let himself cry a little. That had done it. Bruce didn't like it when Jason cried, the rare occasion that he did. Jason didn't want to be weak, but he understood the rules of manipulation. And for all of Batman's big, threatening nature, he was pretty damn soft inside. He didn't like the sight of children crying.

His training had been intense, but fun. He'd enjoyed it immensely, and he eagerly listened to every word Bruce told him, soaking it all in. He wanted to be good, so he was going to be good, and there was no one who could hold him back. He was happy, and he'd never been happier in his entire life. Bruce gave him a chance to forget, to live, and Jason… Jason would never forget it.

The bird thing had been an accident. Jason had been joking around, listing off all the embarrassing nicknames he'd rather than  _Batboy_. Blue Jay had been one of them. And, somehow, through various conversations and the evolution of a really stupid slip of the tongue, Blue Jay had stuck. The costume had been a compromise. Jason had wanted something that looked tough, so that's why the jerkin was sleeveless. The cape had been Bruce's idea, but Jason had insisted it be split into two streams, because it looked cooler. Alfred had embroidered the wings without Jason's knowledge, and when he went to try on the jerkin for the first time, he had to do a double take.

But it was all worth it. Flying with Batman? It was the most exhilarating feeling in the entire world. Jason felt like nothing could hurt him, and that might have been the problem. He was just so happy to be there, so amazed by the world, so desperate to try these things that he just couldn't get a grasp on reality. It was like he was in a dream, and everything was just speeding toward and away from him. Nothing could touch him, because he was flying, and he was stronger than it all.

When Batgirl appeared, it was sorta just like… oh. Well. Because, you know, she was super cool, but Batman was always like, "Go  _home_ , Barbara." And Jason was always like, "He's like that with everyone, don't feel bad." And Barbara was always like, "I don't feel  _bad_ , I feel pissed!" Well, it went on for a little while before Batman finally gave in, and let her have a legitimate suit. But by then Batgirl wanted nothing to do with Batman, so she took the suit and what training Bruce could offer her, and she patrolled on her own.

She had a major soft spot for Jason though.

"Hey, Baby Blue," she said, dropping beside him on the ledge of a roof. Jason was staking out, waiting for Batman to return from a quick perimeter check. Quick, meaning he would probably be less than an hour. Batgirl was holding a thermos tight in her fingers, wearing fingerless, woolen gloves over her normal ones. The night was blustering, and there were snowflakes melting in her blood-red hair. "How's it hanging?"

"Is that coffee?" Jason asked, already half reaching for the thermos. She handed it over without a word, smiling wanly as he gulped down the warm, bitter taste of the brew. It sloshed in his mouth, lukewarm and pungent. "Babs, this is really shitty coffee."

"Well, then give it back."

"No." He took another swig of it, and swallowed, his face screwing up in distaste. He could feel the affects of the caffeine, and he was thankful. When he did give it back, Batgirl took a sip, unfazed by how cold and bitter it was. "What are you doing here?"

She shrugged. Batgirl had actually helped start a team of superheroes not too long ago, and since then she patrolled Gotham less often. But she still liked to come around, because it was her home, and it needed the extra hands. "Just seeing how my favorite little bird is doing," she laughed, closing up her thermos. Jason wrinkled his nose.

"I'm not little," he objected. "I'm like, only a few inches shorter than you. You're the midget."

"I'm pretty average height, actually. But nice try." She smiled, her eyes trailing over the Gotham skyline. Barbara Gordon was the closest thing Jason could call a friend. She was there for him whenever she could be, and she genuinely seemed to enjoy his company. She liked how outspoken he was, and he liked how she never took anyone's shit They were a pretty good team.

"How's the team thing going?" he asked, taking another swig of coffee. Still tasted like warm piss.

She smiled a little, and shrugged. "It's cool," she said, her head tipping backwards to look up at the stars. "We got a new member. She's, um… otherworldly."

"Nice," he remarked, rolling his eyes. "Like, Superman otherworldly?"

Batgirl laughed. "Yeah, something like that. Her name is Koriand'r."

Jason blinked, and his brow furrowed a bit. "Wow," he said. "That's… um, fancy."

"You can call her Starfire," Batgirl said, shrugging. "She's… not used to earth, really. It's difficult to explain. I think she's just suffering from culture shock."

"Kay, so there's you, Kid Flash, Speedy—"

"Speedy left," Batgirl reminded.

"Oh," Jason said. He'd forgotten, Speedy had gotten involved in some nasty drug situation, and left the Teen Titans and Green Arrow. He was MIA, as far as Jason knew. "Right. So no Speedy. Aqualad still there?" Batgirl nodded. "Wonder Girl, um…" Jason tilted his head back too. "Shit, I forget the rest."

"Cyborg," Batgirl reminded gently. "Raven."

"Y'all are misfits," Jason said, grinning up at her. She laughed, and he found himself staring at his hands in thought.  _I might fit on that team_.

His life was a rollercoaster, and he was without a safety bar. He knew a lot of things, horrible things, and Bruce could never understand. He'd never lived it. But Jason understood how cruel the world was. He just wished that everyone else would open their eyes, and realize that justice was an eye for an eye, not an eye for eight months of jail time.

"Shit!" Jason cried, hatred boiling in his veins as he watched the thug, a man he knew had been charged with rape and murder, but had been acquitted, disappear into the night. "He got away!"

The kid that had fallen was okay, it seemed, so Jason wasn't particularly concerned. Jason was a pretty good cushion, and he was relieved he had been there to break the fall, but like,  _fuck_! That son of a bitch had gotten away! And Jason was pissed. So fucking pissed, he left the boy without even checking to make sure he got inside. He would feel immensely guilty about it later, but he couldn't help it. His blood was on fire, and his iron heart was bursting with rage and disgust. Memories were pounding against the wall of ice he'd built in his head, snarling and screaming and raging like flames to get out.

"Jason," Bruce hissed, looming over him. "You put an arrow through his  _hand_."

Jason glared at the floor. It wasn't fair. Bruce just wasn't being fair, and why didn't he understand? Even Barbara had been angry with him, and he'd saved her life!  _What I did was right_ , Jason thought stubbornly.  _No one can tell me I wasn't right_. "He hurt Batgirl," Jason spat right back into Bruce's face. "He was going to  _kill_  her!"  _Or worse_. He pushed that thought out of his head fast.

"That's no excuse."

"Uh," Jason said, "yeah, it is! Look, it's not like there will be any major damage. Maybe some nerve stuff, but let's be real, B, he ain't gonna be needing his hand much in jail."

"You don't understand," Bruce said, sighing as he pinched the bridge his nose. Jason's brow furrowed in confusion.  _No, you're the one who doesn't understand_ , he thought bitterly.  _You still don't understand, after all this time. How could you?_  Jason had never told him, because Jason didn't want to remember. How could he understand? "You aimed to cause that man pain, Jason, not to apprehend him. That's not how we do things. We don't hurt people, not for pleasure."

Jason had snapped at that. He felt fire and ice dance around in his stomach, fear and rage locked in a battle of hatred and shame. "Do you really think I'm that sick?" Jason growled, pushing away from the wall he'd been leaning against. "I didn't do it because I like hurting people! How could you even believe that? I just wanted to get even for what he did to Babs!"

And at that, Bruce looked remorseful. "It wasn't right," he said slowly, his voice softening. "And I… I think I do get it, but I can't forgive it. You're benched for two weeks."

Jason wanted to fight it, but he was too angry, too ashamed, too tired. He glared up into Bruce's face, and he brushed past him. In the end, they made up, and Jason was allowed out again. By this time, Gotham was sporting a new dynamic duo, and it was the weirdest fucking thing in the world, Jason could not fathom how fucking weird it was.

"Um," he said faintly, pointing at the little boy in leather. "B, that ain't Catwoman."

"No."

The boy looked sheepish, clutching a diamond the size of his fist. He was very skinny, way skinnier than Jason was, all sharp, bony angles and awkward limbs. He was wearing a leather cat suit, not dissimilar to Catwoman's, and it seemed to hug his body like a second skin. He looked more comfortable in it than Jason felt in his uniform, if he had to be honest. His suit was zipped all the way up to his chin, and then zipped a little more, showing that he was very reserved. He was a miniature Catwoman, right down to the little whip at his hip.

Then the boy gave a soft little laugh, and he sounded like a child. "Uh," he said, placing a hand on his cocked hip. " _Duh_!"

Jason studied the boy's face, which was half covered by his goggles and cowl. Jason scowled a bit at the boy, and cracked his knuckles. "Kay, I could stand to wipe that smirk off his face. Gimme the word, Batman."

"Blue Jay," Batman warned, his voice a low growl. "Calm."

Jason folded his arms across his chest, glaring at the dumb Catboy. He watched the kid toss the diamond in the air like a baseball, catching it easily, and he cocked his head. He smiled coyly, and walked along the edge of the building. "Wow," he said, his voice high and sweet. "Batman. This is for real."

Jason cocked an eyebrow. "Are  _you_  for real?" he asked, frowning.

The boy smiled sweetly at Jason, and he shrugged his bony little shoulders. "Maybe," he giggled, jumping up on the ledge, tossing the diamond up again and catching it. "Maybe not. How about you, blue bird? You for real?"

Jason threw his head back and groaned. The boy was infuriating. He looked up at Batman, his eyes narrowing. "Please. Please, just one punch, that's all I ask."

The boy's laughter grated Jason's ears, and Jason threw him a dirty look. He was still tossing the diamond like it was a motherfucking baseball, and Jason was bothered just looking at him. "You could be a little friendlier," the boy said, giving a little pout. "I mean, we'll probably be seeing more of each other. If the track record serves."

Jason sneered, and he rolled his eyes. Sadly, the boy could not see that. He tossed up the diamond again, watching the duo inch steadily closer to him. He smiled a little, and he whipped the diamond at Jason. He blinked in surprise, his body curling in apprehension to catch it. Only, a hand flashed in front of his face, and snatched out of the air before he even had to blink. Jason whirled around, growling under his breath as Catwoman clutched the diamond with the tips of her silver claws.

"Too slow, bird boy," she cooed at him, though her eyes were on Batman, and only Batman. It made Jason a little sick. "Kitten, come here. It's okay, they won't hurt you."

The boy looked a little apprehensive, and that surprised Jason. There was a softness to his steps, as if he was avoiding landmines as he scurried to Catwoman's side. He stood behind her, folding his arms across his chest as he raised his head high. Jason was getting mixed signals.

"Now," Catwoman said, tapping her lip with her free hand. "I think we have a dilemma here. Now, I want this pretty little diamond— but, I'm sure you do too, don't you?"

The boy was quiet as he watched them, and Jason could almost see the color of his eyes behind his tinted goggles. Almost. He was shifted behind her, looking a little nervous. Jason found that curious.  _Not so confident now that she's here, huh?_  He wondered why that was. Shouldn't it just be the opposite? Unless he was scared. Scared to disappoint her, or…  _That's gotta be it._

"Catwoman," Batman growled. "We've done this dance a thousand times, but a child? You do realize that when you do to jail, he'll be sent to a juvenile detention center."

"Ha," Catwoman said, leaning away from them. "Ha. Ha ha. Wow, how cute. You know you can't talk, sweetie, so do us all a favor." Jason flung himself away as she leapt forward, her sharp silver claws glinting as they dragged down Batman's chest. "Shut up," she breathed, tilting her head up to kiss him. Jason wrinkled his nose, feeling exasperated.

"Um," he said, running his fingers through his hair as he watched Batman grab her hand. " _Excuse_  me!" Batman pulled back, staring at her hand. And then he looked past her. Jason followed his gaze. "Oh fuck." The boy was gone.

Catwoman smiled sweetly, and gave Batman another peck on the cheek. "Having a partner," she purred, tilting Batman's chin up with her free hand. "Who knew?" She kicked him hard in the jaw, forcing him to stumble back, and Jason bolted after her, a batarang in hand. He jumped, flipping over her head, and she paused, dodging the batarang, but not the swift kick to her abdomen. She stumbled back, and flung herself to the side before Batman could catch her. She dove off the roof, and Jason paused, eyes wide.

"Well," Jason said, peering over the edge. She'd disappeared. "You could have handled that better."

Batman said nothing. He only glared. So Jason went on, because he was irritated as fuck. "Once again your raging boner has us losing to Catwoman." Jason smiled wide, and clapped. "Now, are we going to go after her?"

Batman spun around swiftly. "No point," he grunted. "The boy has the diamond."

 _I hate that kid_ , Jason decided glumly.

If only that was the last they saw of him. Over the next year Batman and Blue Jay came across the other duo, and the boy became just as slippery as his mentor. She was obviously training him, because when it came to a fight, the boy was able to deflect a good portion of Jason's blows. Of course, Jason still won. Because Jason was cool like that. Anyway, Catlad, as he was beginning to be called, was getting more and more confident. Quips and jokes were thrown back and forth, and Jason got to punch him in the face a few times— which felt a little less satisfying than he had thought it would be.

At some point, they became… friends… ish? Like, Jason wasn't quite sure when it had happened, somewhere between Jason giving him a bloody nose, and Catlad bringing him a sandwich while he'd been on patrol. Jason had been reluctant to take it, but the boy had been insistent.

"I didn't steal it," he said, sounding confused. "I do have money, you know."

"Then why steal things?" Jason shot at him, ready to grab a batarang.

The boy looked down, and he fiddled with the zipper at his neck, shrugging. "I mean…" He pulled up his goggles, and Jason saw his eyes for the first time ever. They were blue, bright blue, and more innocent than Jason could have ever imagined. He was naïve. Jason could see that in his features, in his big, wonderstruck eyes. He was a boy made out of curiosity, and Jason was a boy made out of pain. "Why do you fight crime? Because Batman does."

"You steal because Catwoman steals," Jason said, his voice dark. "Great to know how great an influence she is."

"Hey!" Catlad's eyes flashed dangerously. "Catwoman, she's not a bad person. She's just got a taste for thievery."

Jason sighed, and he shrugged. "Whatever, man," he grumbled, dropping to the ground, and crossing his legs as he unwrapped the sandwich. "Want some?"

The boy looked surprised. He looked down at him, and he beamed, bending to his knees to take a half of the sandwich. After that, Jason had managed to forge a belligerent friendship with the boy. He talked softly, and Jason wondered how such a shy boy had wound up with Catwoman. It became increasingly clear that he wasn't very much one for Catwoman's trickery. He was soft spoken, innocent and smiling, happy to have someone to talk to.

He was a total dork. Jason told him so, but the boy didn't seem to mind. He talked about books he'd read, and video games he liked to play, and Jason ended up picking them up after school sometimes so he could understand the boy's blabbering. In the end he almost looked forward to their fights. While Catwoman and Batman did their flirting, he could have a real friend around his age. And that was something new entirely.

"So what's his name?" Jason ended up asking Bruce one day, after a more… steamy encounter with Catwoman, that he had not gotten anywhere near. Instead, he went with Catlad to get ice cream, and read in a park.

Bruce had been a little unsure at first. "Excuse me?" he asked.

"Catlad." Jason rolled his eyes, blowing a stray curl out of his eyes. "Like, come on, I know you know."

Bruce sighed, and he sat down at the kitchen table. "Why do you need to know?" he asked, and Jason puffed out his cheeks in irritation. Bruce was only teasing, but he picked the worst times to do so.

"Um," Jason said, "because he's my friend? Like, he's a total pain in the ass, but he's not that bad."

Bruce had the slimmest vestige of a smile, but it seemed to fall. "You know, he might not be the best choice in a friend, Jason," he said slowly.

Jason actually barked a laugh, a bitter, incredulous laugh. "Oh my god," he said, his voice dull. "I am so not in the mood for that hypocritical shit right now, Bruce."

He watched the man's eyebrows rise. Then he smiled, and gave a slight chuckle. "His name is Tim," Bruce said. "Selina took him in a little over two years ago, now. She has her reasons, and I trust that. He only steals because she does, and she's trying to hammer it into her head that he doesn't have to be like her." Bruce was studying Jason's face closely. "She wants him to know that his life is his life, not hers. He doesn't have anything to prove to her, but he doesn't understand. And whenever she tries to tell him that… well, he doesn't listen. Something you two have in common, I imagine."

Jason scoffed, and he sat down beside Bruce, tipping his chair back precariously. "Please," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm nothing like the little shit. But I'll talk to him about maybe cutting back on the theft."

Bruce stared at him, and he sighed, shaking his head.

Everything seemed to be going fine. Batgirl took him to meet the Teen Titans, and it was… odd. They liked him well enough though. He was surprised. They seemed to accept him for who he was, a boy with a loud mouth, a brash attitude. They didn't expect him to be more than who he was, and he appreciated that. They told him he wasn't much like Batgirl, but hey, Batgirl was pretty one of a kind. Jason had to agree.

"Hey," Jason said after Starfire gave him a goodbye kiss on the cheek. "Babs, was she holding your hand before, or was I tripping?"

Batgirl shrugged, patting his arms as a signal for him to wrap them around her stomach. "She likes to do that," Batgirl said slowly, revving up her bike. "I'm sure you've noticed she's touchy."

"Uh," Jason said, giving a short laugh, "yeah, I noticed. But she seems extra touchy with you."

"Really?" She sounded surprised. "I actually… hadn't noticed, to be honest. Maybe it's…"

"Maybe it's…?" Jason couldn't hear her very well. They were driving too fast, and the wind was rushing in his ears. They were both wearing helmets, which muffled their voices further.

"Nothing."

As time melted by, Jason neared his sixteenth birthday, and the world spun on its head. It was the pressure building to a cataclysmic event, and his entire life was a stepladder to a glorious, horrifying drop. The steady build up was crushing him, pinning him beneath the weight of sorrow and memories and pain. He wanted to be stronger. But strength never came, and he was stuck in a rut of his own making.

By the time they had to deal with Felipe Garzonas, Jason was breaking. He could feel the cracks in his wall of ice, and his iron heart was bursting. The longer he had to linger on thoughts of scum like Felipe, the more he could feel sheets of ice sloughing off his wall, feel the chasms form and feel the memories hiss at him, crackling like flames as they leaked. He didn't want to think about it, but he couldn't help it.

It had been a trying case to begin with, trying to work around Felipe's diplomatic immunity. He was a rapist, a druggie, a worthless shitstain. And yet, he was going to get out of this situation without a single fucking scratch. Even if he was deported, nothing would actually be done about it. And Jason was pissed. Not even Catlad, who had been watching Jason's progress from afar, could pacify the festering loathing that built inside of him. Jason was beyond recognition, dizzy from fury and disgust. There was nothing human about what Garzonas did to women. And Jason, who was fracturing apart, his insides unraveling from the sight of the corpse of a woman who had been Garzonas's victim.

 _She hung herself_ , Jason thought, dropping onto the man's fire escape. His thoughts were fire, and they were overwhelming his brain. He was overheating, and he was ready to puke.  _She didn't want to hurt anymore, so she hung herself, and it's his fault. It's all his fault_.

Jason had been blind with his own rage, and he wasn't quite sure what had happened himself. He'd sprung, punching the man in the stomach, then the jaw, and he kept punching, kept swing, kept praying the man would disappear from existence, because filth like him  _shouldn't exist_. He was disgusting, and he needed to stop. He needed to be taught a lesson about humanity. Jason's iron heart was pounding, and he felt it screech as it bent, bursting open, and releasing a flume of fire. In his head, ice shuddered, and snapped, and he felt the world spin and spin and spin as long buried memories shivered and moaning, rising from the grave to chill him to the bone.

Felipe fell. That had not been Jason's intention, but it had been his fault. Too many blows, and the man had not withstood it. He fell. And Jason, heaving and blinking in shock, watched him go. He flew to the rail, grasping it and bending over, his eyes widening. The man's shrieking was echoing in his head, the sound mixing with Jason's own shrieking. Jason was waiting for the sound of a body smacking against pavement as he closed his eyes.

It never came.

"Blue Jay, what happened?" Batman growled, jumping onto the balcony. Jason looked up at him, his mouth opening. He had nothing to say. He looked down, and he saw that Felipe was gone. How…? Jason looked away, pressing his lips together thinly. He couldn't speak. He might scream. "Blue Jay, did Felipe fall… or was he pushed?"

Jason almost did scream. He didn't want to hear it. He turned away, and as he did something dropped between them. Hard. Jason whipped around, streams of silver and black whirling around him, and his teeth gnashed together in rage. Felipe. Alive, shell-shocked, his body curling up as he gasped, his beady eyes wide and blood shot.

"I confess!" he screeched, his fingers clapping over his head. His right forearm was bloody, five long lacerations open and spewing. Jason's stomach dropped a little as he craned his neck up, seeing a blur of black streak across the sky. His anger, his disgust, it all flooded back to him and projected out.  _Tim_ , Jason thought, shaking in fury as he leapt onto the balcony, shooting his grappling gun. He ignored Batman's shout for him, and he swung away, following his friend without thought or feeling. Only bitter rage and fire fueled him.

He followed Tim blindly. He knew Batman wasn't behind him, because there wasn't a chance the bastard would leave Garzonas to go after Jason. No way. So he leapt through the air, the sky growing steadily dimmer as the chase kept up. Tim weaved between buildings, and Jason followed, his heart pounding in his ears, a great roaring fire spewing from its iron maw. He was going insane from the heat, and he let a scream rip into the unfurling twilight.

Tim must have heard it, because he stopped. His body was still lanky and awkward, but less so. He seemed to be growing into his skinny limbs and wonder-filled eyes. He stood on a roof, his body language loose. He cocked his head at Jason as he landed before him, breathless and enraged. Tim raised his hands, and Jason saw that the silver claws of his right one were stained red.

"Look, I don't want to step on any toes—" He cut off with a sharp gasp as he stumbled back, Jason's fist smashing into his cheek. He looked up, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion and pain. "What was  _that_?"

"No one asked you to save that scumbag!" Jason snapped, punching Tim again, this time in the stomach. The boy's eyes flew wide with pain, and he whirled away from the third punch, driving a swift kick to Jason's abdomen to force him back.

"Are you crazy?" Tim gasped, his voice breaking and going very high. "Hello! Jay, you pushed him off a balcony!"

"I didn't push him!" Jason spat, knocking the boy onto his back, and watching him roll onto his feet. "I… I punched him. He got scared. I didn't push him!"

Jason could feel the ghost of fingers on his skin, and he blinked rapidly as Tim tackled him, pinning him down as he fought to get up. His heart was pounding hard, and so was his head, and he felt tears in his eyes as he felt his wall completely crumble. He thought he might scream, or sob, and thrash. He didn't. Instead, everything in him broke. He felt it slip away from him, his rage and pain and confusion. He turned it off, as his memories surfaced, bitter memories of sloppy kisses and hot tears.

"Well, now that we're comfy," Tim said, his claws digging into Jason's wrists. "Maybe you'll listen now?"

 _Do I have a choice?_  He felt numb. His entire body tingled, and he knew this feeling, knew it well. It was an easy feeling. A coping mechanism.  _Maybe if Gloria had learned to turn herself off, she wouldn't have_ … No, Jason couldn't put himself in her shoes. It had to be different for her. Part of him was almost jealous that she had gotten out, while he was stuck inside his own mechanical version of  _feeling_.

"I don't want to hurt you," Tim said. Jason watched him, and he wanted to laugh.  _I don't want to hurt you,_  was usually a lie told to get him to shut up before it started. "I just want to understand what happened. I saw the fight, and… maybe you're right, maybe he did fall. It was really hard to tell. But you can't tell me that you didn't want him to fall. What happened? What did he do?"

Jason was watching his lips. They weren't what he was used to, not fat and whiskered, too big and wet for his little ones. Tim's were small, cute and pink and babbling about things that didn't even matter anymore. They were probably soft too. Jason had always been the soft one, so he had to wonder. He struggled with his body, pulling it up slightly. Tim ignored it, and kept talking.

"Silent treatment? Real cool, Blue. You attacked me, just remember that. Like, we couldn't talk about this like two normal human beings, no, we have to fight about it. So can you fill me in now, like I'm seriously getting—" Jason leaned his head up, pressing his lips against Tim's. There was a sharp tingle as the muffled words vibrated against his mouth. He watched Tim's eyes go so wide, he thought they might pop out of his head, and he felt a deep, gutting disappointment as Tim immediately pulled back. "Um…"

"What?" Jason asked, his voice cold and dead.

"You…" Tim looked terrified, and that was confusing. "Uh… oh. W-what was…?" He couldn't seem to get the words out. That made Jason angry.

"What?" Jason repeated, easing his body upward so his chest was against Tim's. He seemed to be frozen in place, eyes wide and flashing in horror. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"What I…?" Tim blinked rapidly, squeaking as Jason kissed him again, this time harder, more desperate as he let everything in him melt away. He felt his wrists being released, but before Tim could push him down, Jason had a finger pulling down the zipper at his throat. The sound was grossly familiar, and it sent a shiver down his spine. Tim tasted so sweet, like icing was caked on his lips, and sugar on his tongue. Jason couldn't understand why he wasn't responding to the kisses.  _I'm supposed to be good at this_ , he thought.

"Jay!" Tim grabbed his hands, forcing their lips apart. He was flushed, and Jason could feel him shaking. That was good. "Stop, okay? I-I don't… I mean, I…" He took a deep breath, and Jason felt a strange sinking inside him.

"I thought you wanted me," Jason said, his eyes falling to the exposed muscle of the boy's chest. Skinny and pale and heaving.  _He's just a boy_ , Jason reminded himself.  _But older than I was_.

Tim seemed to pale, and he opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was a choking noise. Jason exhaled sharply through his nose. "Get off me," he growled. He could feel his body trembling, feel tears of shame prickle his eyes. He felt sick, bile churning in his stomach as he realized how horrible he was.  _They were all right about me_ , he thought numbly, shoving Tim away.  _I've always been nothing. How could anyone want me? Especially him_. He had to take deep breaths to keep himself from bursting into tears. The air tasted like smog and rain, acidic and prickly. He lurched to his feet.

"Jay…" Tim was still talking, and Jason just wanted him to shut up, because his skin was crawling, and his head was pounding, and he was disgusted and shuddering. He could feel phantom kisses, phantom fingers, phantom skin against skin. "I'm… not sure what's going on, I… What made you think that I…?"

"You were acting like they did," Jason snapped, clutching his head in his hands. He needed to get a hold of himself. He didn't want to talk about it, he didn't want to think about it, but it was all flooding back, and he could  _feel_  it. Jason bolted, running for the edge of the roof.

Tim caught his wrist. "They?" He pulled Jason back, reeling him in closer and closer, and Jason swayed, watching him with a dead gaze.

"Don't touch me," Jason whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

"If I let go, do you promise not to run?" Jason shook his head mutely, and Tim's fingers tightened. "Who are they?" Tim was staring with wide, searching eyes. "It's okay to tell me."

"They," Jason choked, quaking as Tim's hand slid from his wrist into his hand. "The…" He swallowed, and he glanced away. "Oh, god…"

"Hey," Tim whispered, his eyes widening as Jason choked on a sob. "No, shh, it's okay."

Jason dropped to his knees, his head spinning, and Tim dropped too, clutching him tightly to his chest as he began to cry. He shuddered, burying his face into the boy's neck, and Tim hugged him tightly, letting him sob into his chest. He didn't want to be weak, but he was, in the end, and he struggled to recollect himself. He was choking on his tears, and Tim was patting his head awkwardly, confused and a child, not quite sure what to do.

When Jason pulled back, his tears drying on his cheeks, he hiccupped a little. Tim gave him a wane smile. "Y-you…" Jason shook his head furiously, trying helplessly to clear it. "You can't tell B-Batman, you  _can't_."

"I won't," Tim said softly, his eyes glowing in sincerity.

And then, shakily, Jason told him everything.

A week later Jason went downstairs, and he saw Selina Kyle at the kitchen table. He was much better, and he'd already begun rebuilding his wall. It was easy to forget when he was happy, and there were no incidents involving scum like Felipe Garzonas.

"Um," Jason said, blinking at her for a moment. "Hi." She had been talking with Bruce, but they had both gotten very quiet. Either they were talking about him, or sex. _Probably sex_ , he mused, wrinkling his nose. He turned toward the fridge to get himself some milk.

"Hello, Jason," Selina said, tilting her head.

"Selina came to tell me…" Jason watched Bruce's eyes flash to Selina's, and he took a sip of his milk. "She told that you and Tim had a… run in about a week ago."

Jason choked, dropping the glass and watching it shatter. He stared at the milk spilt across the floor, and he coughed, staring up at them with wide eyes. Selina had the same expression, her brow raised, and her green eyes wide in shock. Bruce's surprise was muted, but it was still there. Jason quickly ran to the sink to grab a towel, and Bruce stepped up beside him, but Jason shook his head furiously.

"No, I'm sorry," he breathed, bending down. "I'm really sorry, I… I can clean it up, just give me a minute—"

"Jason—"

"No!" Jason jerked away from Bruce's touch, and he fell backwards, his palm slamming against broken glass. He looked down, watching swirls of blood melt into the milky white puddle. He took a deep breath, and he bit his lip, springing to his feet and sprinting up the stairs.

He stood in the bathroom, feel numb and horrified as he stood over the sink of the bathroom, watching as his hand turned the porcelain crimson in fast flowing droplets. He looked up at himself in the mirror, skinny and disheveled, and he hated himself. He hated himself more than anyone could ever know. He bit his lip, tears only beginning to prickle his eyes when he dug his nails into the wound, gritting his teeth as he withdrew the bit of glass imbedded there. By the time he yanked it out, his hand was throbbing, and the blood was leaking from the wound in long, thick red streams.

Bruce knocked on the door, and Jason sighed. He stared at his bloody hand, and flicked on the faucet, using his uninjured one to unlock the door. Bruce entered without a word, closing the door behind him. He watched Jason run his hand beneath the water, and he frowned.

"I…" Jason took a deep, rasping breath. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Bruce said. He studied Jason's face for a moment, and he sighed. "I am curious, though. What triggered that reaction?"

Jason stared and his eyes flashed away. "What… what exactly did she tell you?"

Bruce blinked. He ran his fingers through his hair, and he frowned slightly. "Well," he said. And then he shuffled awkwardly. Jason almost laughed. "She… would like to make it clear that she doesn't believe Tim is… ready to date just yet." He frowned, his brow furrowing as he watched Jason face. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

Jason flushed, and he looked down at his hand. "Uh…" He gave a weak laugh, and he shrugged. "I might be a little gay?"

"Eloquently put."

"Thanks."

They looked at each other, and Jason quickly glanced back to his hand. It was beginning to really fucking hurt. "So, uh," he said. "What else did she tell you?"

"Well, not much," Bruce said, tilting his head. He studied Jason intensely, and Jason wondered if he was lying. "You came downstairs. Is… there anything you  _want_  to tell me?"

Jason's eyes flashed away. And he shrugged. "Nope," he said. He glanced up at the man, pressing his lips together into a thin line. "So… you're cool with me kissing Tim?"

"I have no right to judge," Bruce said, giving Jason a small smile. "However, Selina is a little reluctant to let Tim kiss anyone." Bruce cocked his head, and then he shook it, smiling a bit. "She hasn't had him very long, so it's not strange that she doesn't want him to grow up."

"Oh." Jason found himself flushing again, and he turned off the faucet. "Well, she doesn't have to worry. That…" He felt really weird talking about it to Bruce. "That kiss didn't mean much. I… was just really um… upset. Tim was there."

"I see."

Jason sighed. "I really need to apologize to him."

"That might be best." Bruce reached for his hand, and Jason was surprised when he grasped it. "Let me patch this up for you."

Jason felt a warm feeling spread through his chest. And he smiled. "Okay," he said, nodding.

Things… were not normal per se. There was a subtle shift in Bruce's attitude toward Jason. And Jason noticed. He took great care whenever they dealt with abuse cases to keep Jason in sight, and make sure he was okay. That was confusing, and he tried not to over think it.  _He doesn't know_ , he told himself.  _He doesn't know, he can't know, if he would look at me different. But he still loves me_.

He avoided Tim a lot. He didn't want to have to talk about it, or face the consequences of what he'd done. He tried to push it far away from him, and focus on what was happening in front of him. If he didn't, he knew he might go insane. The world kept spinning, but not for long. The pressure was still building, and he already felt like he was going to collapse.

Jason sat by Barbara's side for hours after she was shot, reading to her from his copy of  _The Man Who Laughs_ , which he'd picked up for shits and giggles. He sort of regretted it now, but a good book was a good book. By then she had put aside being Batgirl… or taken a break. She hadn't made it clear. She just had been in the wrong place, and it was awful. Jason felt helpless watching her sleep, knowing that she's never walk again, and he had no will left in him to be angry. He just wanted her to be okay.

She said she was. But he knew she was lying.

Fate brought him to a warehouse later that year. Fate, who had piled so much bullshit on top of him that he felt like he was gonna snap— Fate, who had screwed him over time and time again. And Jason felt himself tip precariously backwards as his bones snapped, and a crowbar came crashing down again and again, a distant rhythm in his head. He'd turned off his sense of feeling, and instead let himself be taken in by the thrill of the fall.

There was more. He knew there was more. But the things he remembered were all sweet, thrumming dreams. And they all ended the same. With a  _bang_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be my favorite chapter of the entire story. Does that mean the rest of the story is shitty? Uh, yeah actually. Might as well just stop now. Anyways, this is directed at Maggie, but it deals with the story behind my choices for this chapter. Maggie, we've talked about Jason's back story with child prostitution. And I know it hurts you so good, it hits all your angst buttons. But I actually ended up reading an amazing, super long Jason meta while I was writing this chapter. I had the tab up for days after I finished, just because I couldn't stop going back to it. Oh, about the JayTim? As far as I know this is all the kissing there will be between them, but I'm not finished with the story, so who knows. Also, Jason is bi. Clearing that up right now. How about everyone in this story is bi, just assume that.
> 
> Cred to my bro Victor Hugo. He likes making his characters miserable just as much as I do.


	6. The Deluding Talon

**{the deluding talon}**

  
_-Products, destined for tumblers, had their joints dislocated in a masterly manner—you would have said they_ _had been boned. Thus gymnasts were made-_   


Talon grew from a hatchling to a beast. And Dick shrunk from a gregarious boy, to hardly a boy at all. Sometimes it was easy to forget he'd ever existed. Dick was not Talon, and Talon was not Dick, but they shared the same body. Talon was ruthless, and Dick was meek. That was how it went, and there was never a power struggle. Dick had no strength for it. And Talon? Well, he was the one who was in control. And it was better that way.

Years passed slowly, and it was all very agonizing. People died. He was used to it. He had hardened himself to the ways of war, and the more he grew the less it troubled him. He killed, but he never quite grasped it. That he was doing it. He liked to think it was someone else. That's how he'd grown to consider Talon a separate entity. Still, they were the same. And it was all very sad, at the end of the day, when Dick looked into the mirror and saw a human face.

He missed talking to people. He used to love to talk. Now, not so much. He had trouble forming words, as if his tongue had grown stanch, and his teeth had grown to razor-sharp points. He was a nearly mute little thing, too skinny to be healthy, too strong to be human. And yet he was. It was awful. He was awful.

When he was eighteen, a strange thing happened. He'd been shot. In the very heart of winter, when Gotham's roofs were frozen over, power lines dripping long, jagged icicles, and snow drizzling from the heavens. Of course, the man who had shot him had been quickly disposed of, and Talon had a lot of blood on his hands as he skidded across rooftops, imbalanced and frightened. He wasn't supposed to be, but he was. He wasn't healing. He knew it was the cold, but he was growing dizzy from the blood loss.

He stumbled, crashed, and he thought for once he might be caught. He had to kill a few people he hadn't been sent to kill. That sent his mind into a frenzy. He stumbled through snowy alleys, clambering up walls, heaving misty breaths, and he left blood stains everywhere he went. Red patches littered the snow below him, and he bit his lip, crawling across crumbling brick to attach himself to a window ledge. He took a deep breath, his body wracking, and he could feel his grip slipping from the ice layering the ledge. He perched himself, his mask frosting over, obscuring his vision. He knew he was running out of time.

He wedged open the window, unlocking it swiftly, and he slipped inside the apartment. He crashed onto the floor, his body curling up weakly, and he coughed, pressing shaky fingers to his mouth. His lips felt wet. He blinked dizzily, and struggled to his feet, trudging through the living room, listening closely for any sign of movement. He heard none. The apartment was small, and the residents were poor. Talon crept carefully, hearing his own ragged breath. It was loud to him, but perhaps not to anyone else.

He found a bathroom. It was there that he tore off his mask, sweat causing his mop of black hair to stick stubbornly to his forehead. He looked dead, his skin sallow, his eyes sunken, and his purple lips caked with drying blood. He swallowed it, tasting the warmth and the sweet acrid taste, and he shuddered from it. He carefully undid his suit, pulling it down dizzily to expose his wounded side. Scars lined his abdomen, fresh scars and old scars, and they zig-zagged across his pallid flesh, licking up is spin and around his hips, kissing his shoulders and arms, hugging his waist. They were all as clingy as a lover, and as forever as a wife.

He heard a stir behind him. A soft noise, a mumbling child coming close to examine him. Talon turned, his heart pounding, and he is hollow eyes fell upon a little girl. She was slight, with a round face, sharpened eyes, and a long tumbling mess of blonde hair. She looked up at him, her eyes like dark gray ashes, and she frowned in confusion. Talon watched, and he slowly raised a blood soaked finger, pressing it to his lips. Her mouth parted into a slight gape, and she gave him a shaky mimic.

Talon beckoned her into the tiny bathroom, and she came without comment. He shut the door behind her, his thoughts flying fast. Truthfully, he had no taste for ending her life, but there were things that needed to be done. It would be quick. He could slit her throat fast, and then be done with it. But he didn't want to. He was too weak, and she was too small, and it was all very confusing.

She was staring at his wounded side, at the balled up toilet paper he was pressing to the bloody hole. He spoke, his voice crackling and soft. "Help?" he breathed. He was beginning to warm up, and he could feel his skin begin to form over the bullet wound. That wouldn't be good.

The girl's brow furrowed. "Are you…?" She cocked her head as Talon pressed his finger to his lip again, tapping it furiously. She closed her mouth, and he pulled the bloody paper away. She stared wide eyes at the wound, and he winced as he tried to dig into it to retrieve the bullet.

The girl looked almost frightened, but she was trying not to show it. If she was growing nervous, it was behind a curious face. "Tweezers," she said, pointing to the medicine cabinet. "Top shelf."

Talon quickly snatched them, wincing as he dug into the half-healed wound, tearing through his flesh to get to the bullet. That seemed to get to the girl, she grew shaky, her eyes growing wide and glistening. When the bullet finally gave, he tossed it into the sink, collapsing onto the floor and heaving. The girl was a problem. The fact that he'd left a trail of blood was a problem. But he didn't have the strength to kill her. He barely had the strength to look up when she drizzled water over his lips. They parted, sucking desperately for hydration.

"What are you?" the girl asked, unfazed as his blood soaked finger grazed her cheek. "You're no White Rabbit. So what are you?"

That puzzled him. He watched her dazedly, and as she continued to talk, he realized one thing. She thought she was dreaming. That was why she wasn't panicking.  _Children don't deal with things like grown ups_ , he found himself thinking.  _They don't leap to conclusions. She saw that I needed help. So she helped_. Kindness had nearly become a foreign concept.

"Or are you like the walrus?" the girl asked, sounding puzzled. He stared at her blankly, and she frowned, watching him warily. "You know. " _The time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of many things. Of shoes, and ships, and sailing wax_ …""

Dick knew this. He struggled to sit up, and he took a deep, rasping breath. " _O-of cabbages and kings_ …?" he offered weakly. She smiled, looking delighted that he knew the poem.  _What an odd child_. She held the bloody tissue to his side, and she nodded.

" _And why the sea is boiling hot_ ," she said. " _And whether pigs have wings_."

The walrus and the carpenter, Dick knew, had lured oysters from their bed and treated them with kindness before devouring them.  _And I'm just the same_ , he thought numbly, reaching for a knife at his belt. He was reminded of another poem, then, one about him.

"Beware the court of owls," he blurted, bolting up straight. The girl looked startled, and her mouth dropped open. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his fingers closing around the knife. "B-beware the court of owls, that watches all the time…" She looked at him as if she had just awoken from a deep slumber. She dropped the bloody tissue, and she looked around wildly. "Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime…"

She pressed her back against the door, her eyes on the knife. He gave her credit, she did not scream. His knife hovered against her neck, over her throat, and she still had the courage to speak to him. This time her words were rushed, and she said them mechanically. There was venom behind them though. Because she knew.

"They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed," whispered the girl, shaking so terribly that she cut herself on his knife. A bead of blood trailed down her throat. "Speak not a whispered word of them, or they'll send the talon for your head."

He was fully healed by now. He stood, and he towered over the poor girl, who had begun to cry.  _This is wrong_ , he thought.  _This is so wrong_. He inhaled deeply, and the bathroom smelled like blood. He pressed a bloody hand to her flaxen hair, watching red streak across the fine strands.

"Your parents," he said hoarsely. "Where are they?"

She said nothing. She squeezed her eyes shut, and she shrugged weakly, her lips trembling as she tried to contain a sob. And Dick took pity on her. Because it was wrong. And he didn't want to be the Walrus, or the Carpenter, who devoured a poor little girl whole. It was wrong. He was wrong.

He withdrew his knife, and clamped his hand over her mouth before she could scream. She stared, wide eyed and shocked. "Listen to me carefully," he whispered to her. "You don't know who I am. You never saw my face. You didn't help me, you tried to stop me, but you banged your head. You don't know what happened. Do you hear me? This is your life, and they will make me kill you if you don't say exactly this. You know nothing. I was here, but you don't know who I am. Understand?"

She nodded vigorously, tears flowing freely from her eyes. And he sighed, slamming her head back against the wall. He watched her eyes roll upward, and he let her slump to the floor. He cleaned the bathroom as well as he could before he left. The girl would be concussed, surely, but that was the extent of her injuries. Better yet, no one would believe a concussed little girl babbling nursery rhymes.

When he returned, they put him to sleep. He had no idea if they knew about the girl or not. He checked on her the next time they woke him up, and found her alive and well. That meant the world to him, and more. Because he had betrayed the Court, and they had no idea. He loved that feeling. Knowing he'd spared a life, and he'd gotten away from it.

It gave him a new resolve. Even the Talon part of him thirsted for the chance to be free. With his power, he could make wonders happen. And at heart, he was just a boy who wanted to make people happy. Growing up a performer had done that to him. He lived to please, but it wasn't the Court of Owls who needed pleasing. They were still the ones who owned him, though.

For a few years he went without incident. The girl was not forgotten, but rather shoved to the back of his mind. She made no matter, so long as she lived. If she died… well, that made no matter either. So long as it wasn't by his hand _. I can't kill myself_ , Dick thought glumly after a particularly nasty mission. He tried anyway.

When he was twenty one, he was forced to go undercover. That was a first. He wondered why one of the Court's members didn't go. After all, he didn't fit into society very well anymore. He didn't know how to speak to people. But it seemed the Court of Owls had grown awfully interested in Bruce Wayne. That was a disturbing thought. But if it came down to it, Talon would kill the man, as he'd killed the rest.

He felt constricted in a suit. Like he was wearing an itchy costume. He had no right to wear something so normal. He stood rigidly, trying to find his footing in a room with so many people. This wasn't what he had been trained for. It had to be a test. So he reluctantly began to speak, smilingly minutely at other partygoers, watching Bruce Wayne very carefully as he moved.

"Boring, huh?" a sweet, teasing voice said.

Dick's head snapped to the side, but he saw no one. And then, feeling foolish, he looked down. It was a girl—  _woman_ , he scolded himself. She was tiny, and the wheelchair didn't help it. She was muscular, but very skinny, and she looked like she might have been very awkward once before she grew into her limbs. But she was pretty. Very pretty. Dick tried not to notice these things, but it was painfully hard when he recalled that he'd never gotten the chance to speak with a pretty girl like this before. He almost felt normal.

"Y-yes," Dick said. He blinked, and he winced. "I mean, yeah. Yeah, it's… boring."

She quirked an eyebrow, and she gave a soft laugh. Her red hair bounced around her head as she tilted it, her blue eyes big and curious. There was a lot of life in them. And Dick was jealous. He couldn't remember what that kind of life felt like. He turned away from her, feeling suddenly bitter, and he looked ahead toward Bruce Wayne again.

The woman followed his gaze. "Ah," she said, resting her chin in her palm. "The great host himself. How do you know him?"

Talon had been told what to say, but Dick was forgetting. "Um," he said faintly. She smiled, and he looked away. "The Wayne Foundation. I was a scholarship… child." It sounded so stupid, he knew he'd messed up the back story. The girl stared at him, and he looked down, feeling embarrassed and confused. He was fumbling with basic oratory functions, and he couldn't think properly with so many people. He didn't want to fraternize, because he didn't know who he might have to kill in the near future. He prayed it wasn't the redheaded woman, it would just be too cruel.

"You're not used to parties," she observed. He shook his head slowly. "They can be… a lot to swallow. But hang in there, I'm sure it'll be over soon."

 _That's what I'm scared of_. He couldn't say anything more, so he merely nodded. The woman seemed to take that as a sign that he didn't want to talk anymore, because she nodded back and said her farewells. Dick wanted to stop her, urge her to keep talking. It could be about anything, really, just so long as she spoke to him like he was a normal person.

"Oh," a blonde woman gasped, standing in a group of other women watching Bruce Wayne. Dick crept behind them, uncertain about their intentions. He knew why he was staring. Why were they? "It's just so awful about his son, I can barely  _stand_  it!"

"Well it wasn't really his son," another woman said, giving the blonde one a sour look. "And besides, it's not like the boy's dead."

"He might as well be," sighed a woman with graying hair. "The poor child, even if he ever does wake up…"

"Excuse me," Dick said quietly, tapping the elder woman on the shoulder. They all turned to face him instead, and he stumbled back, flushing red. "I-I was just wondering what you meant. About Bruce Wayne's son?"

The blonde one looked at him strangely, as if he'd suddenly became the monster he sometimes dreamt he was. He could almost feel the talons sliding from his nailbeds. "Don't you watch the news?" the woman asked, blinking at him. She gave him a once over, and her lips curled. "Handsome."

His mouth opened, and then closed. He had no proper response to that, and it wasn't because he was fumbling with his words. He might have been called handsome when he was very young, but he knew there was a grave difference. "I… haven't been able to catch it." He bit his lip nervously. "I'm busy. A lot. I'm very busy."

He blinked as a few women began to giggle, and he took a step back. Maybe this had been a bad idea. The older woman looked at him, smiling warmly. It was the strangest sight in the world. "Poor Jason Todd is in a coma," said the woman sadly. She shook her head, and Dick watched her, hoping he could pretend like he knew what she meant by that. "The poor boy may never wake up— and if he does, his  _leg_ —"

"Well they have prosthetics for that, don't they?" a mousy looking woman asked. "Lord knows Bruce can afford the best of the best."

"But will that be enough?" The elderly woman shook he head. "No, that boy is so heavily scarred, I wouldn't be surprised if they took an arm soon. He's so torn up, he's practically been used as a chew toy."

"A fire's chew toy," the blonde said bitterly. "If the few reports we've gotten on his condition are anything to go by, the kid's got burns bigger than all of New Jersey."

"That…" Dick made his eyes widen as if in shock. "That's awful." Something occurred to him, and he struggled to get it out. "If… if his… son… is so hurt… why throw this party?"

"Charity galas," sighed the mousy one. "These types of things don't get cancelled because a little boy played with fire."

"Nice," the blonde said, glaring at the mousy woman. "The poor boy was a hostage, and you still manage to blame him."

The woman shrugged, and grabbed a champagne from a passing waiter. "I never did like that kid," she admitted, taking a gulp. "I mean, he was so possessive of Bruce…"

"Well he did come off the streets," the elderly one reminded. "He must have been very attached to Bruce."

The mousy one rounded on him. "What do you think?"

"I…" He glanced away, his brow furrowing. "I didn't know him."

The woman gave a soft chuckle. "You're the lucky one, then."

Dick left quietly as the other ones chided her. He never met Bruce Wayne's eye, but he did run into the redhead again. She waved him over introducing him to a quiet boy who had only just arrived. He looked as nervous and uncertain as Dick felt. He was gawky and wide eyed, like a child who was perpetually struck by the wonders of the world. Once again, Dick found himself jealous.

"Tim, this is…" The redhead looked up at him, her brow furrowing. "Wow, I didn't even catch your name, I'm sorry."

"John," Dick said easily— the easiest thing he'd said all night. That's what he'd been told to say. John was such a common name, he wasn't even sure  _they_  had known it was his father's. But they had to know, didn't they? "And… yours?"

"Barbara," she said. She smiled, and gave Tim a pat on the shoulder. "Tim's here alone tonight, so I thought I'd introduce him to someone here who is even more awkward than him."

"Wow," he blurted, shocked by how frank she was. "Thanks."

She smiled wider, rolling her chair back. "Sorry, that was mean," she said. "True, though. Anyway, I'll be right back. I need to make sure my dad doesn't drink too much, because I can't drive home, and that would be awkward." She moved away, and Dick watched her go in total wonder.  _How can anyone be so alive?_

The boy, Tim, was watching him intently when Dick turned back to face him. "She likes you," he said, frowning.

That struck him as silly. And sad. "W-what?" he asked, taking a step back. He took a deep breath. He was getting ridiculous. "I'm sorry. What?"

Tim rolled his eyes, and he folded his arms across his chest. "She thinks you're cute," Tim sighed. "Otherwise she wouldn't have calling you back to get your name. You do realize that's why she introduced us, right? I'm not really that awkward."

"Oh." It was too confusing to think about. "That… is not what I expected. At all."

Tim shrugged. "These sort of things aren't expected. Like, ever." He gave him a thin smile. "Just a fair warning, though, her dad's the Commissioner. Might want to think twice before getting involved if you like all your parts."

That was funny. Dick actually gave a short, bitter laugh, and he looked up at the ceiling. "There's a lot of parts of me I wish I could get rid of," he admitted.

Tim looked very confused, and he raised an eyebrow. Dick began to realize how bad this was.  _What do I say when she comes back? I can't stay, I have to stop this now before it gets any more out of hand. If I don't leave now, they'll find out, and they'll hurt her, and Tim, they'll hurt them both for being near me_. Dick took a deep breath, and he turned away.

"I have to go," he said. He saw the boy's eyes go wide, but nothing else as he bolted from the room.

The information he had gotten was adequate enough. Just enough. He knew they were expecting more, but he had not been able to stay there any longer. And he was growing restless inside his own skin. When they put him to sleep, he struggled to stay awake. He wanted to be awake, alive, he wanted to live but it wasn't possible. He was already a dead thing in borrowed skin.

They awoke him for small assignments. Small kills. He went without complaint, and eased back into his simple life of wondering how he had gotten so deep in something he hated so much. But he had no choice. Certainly that was an excuse. He had no choice but to do the bidding of the Court of Owls. But still, he had trouble sometimes accepting that this was truly who he was.

Years crawled away from him. He was lost amongst his own languid days, hopeless to those who controlled him. It was a thankless existence, but he went on and on and on, and he thought that maybe some day he would die, and that would be sweet.

Their masks glowed in the darkness, white and stark— disembodied heads with big hollow eyes boring into his skin, burrowing underneath and controlling him from the inside. He was used to this feeling, used to being someone other than himself. He watched, and they watched, and the pinched white faces moved closer. They had a new target for him. It was nice to know, if only so he knew what it would take to be put back to sleep.

"Bruce Wayne is becoming an obstacle."

Talon lifted his head. He nodded, his tongue feeling heavy and inflexible.

"However, we don't want him gone. Not just yet. He is a curious specimen— and his grief may be a key to turning Gotham to us."

Confusion buzzed in his head like a thousand wasps, and they bit him, forcing him to blink rapidly.  _Not Bruce Wayne_ , he told himself.  _Then who?_

"Your target," said the littlest owl gleefully, "is Jason Todd."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talon was hard to write at this point because I know like close to nothing about the Court of Owls, so anything about them is me just taking my knowledge and bullshitting it. Actually, that's just how I write, nevermind. 
> 
> Cred to Victor Hugo for being a boss and giving me badass quotes.


	7. The Loyal Kitten

**{the loyal kitten}**

  
_-In some situations of supreme importance nothing approaches so near an omniscient intelligence as the_ _simple instinct of a faithful animal-_   


Living with Selina was a grace from god. It was home, and it felt like home, because it was warm and familiar and he was  _happy_. Tim still wasn't sure how she'd managed to get his papers, but he was adopted by her a few months after he had arrived. Initially he had thought she'd just send him back to a foster home. When he had told her that, she'd been offended.

"After what they did to you?" Selina's bold green eyes were cloudy with rage. "No. Never again. From now on, you'll stay with me."

Tim had still been healing at that point, so he had stared up at her with big, bruised eyes. "Miss S… Are… are you sure…?"

"Of course," she said, studying his features. She smiled, and ruffled his hair. "Unless there's something I should know about. You're not actually Batman, are you, kitten? Because I don't think I could live with Batman."

He gave a soft giggle, and he shook his head, though he had to wonder about the woman's relationship with the Bat.  _I guess I'll find out_ , he thought. He did, and he remained unsurprised. He didn't really approve of Selina's ways of distracting Batman, but he found it all very amusing. As he grew up, so did his outlook. By the time he demanded to help Selina with her… job, he decided to start trying to emulate her. Well, not her… more charming tactics. Tim just wanted to learn how to be that flexible, to run and fight with the litheness of a cat.

She taught him without complaint. It was a little hard to grasp, but Tim had set his mind to it. And once he set his mind to something, there was no turning back. He would succeed. That was who he was. He had an undeniable lust for knowledge, and as time went on it only got worse. He had to know everything, and he had to know how to do everything. It was almost troublesome, but Selina thought it was cute.

Tim went to school, and he began to make friends. He was growing more comfortable in his own skin, which made him happy. He was less awkward now, and there was a genuine sense of contentment where he was. His nightly activities never dampened this— in fact, he felt livelier being where he was now. He felt safe, like nothing could touch him, and that was amazing.

His budding friendship with Blue Jay had been circumstantial. If Selina and Batman didn't have that weird… thing that they had, Tim was sure they'd never had been friends at all. But the boy was pretty cool, and he listened. He acted like any other kid, albeit a little more violent than Tim had expected. He had a short temper, and sometimes that caused him problems.

The kiss thing had been startling. The story Jason had told was even more so. The disturbing truth about the boy's past made too much sense, and too little sense at all. Tim had no idea how to deal with any of it. He was thirteen, and he was utterly confused about everything that was happening, and so he'd done the only thing he could do. He'd blurted it all to Selina. Immediately he'd felt terrible, and he pleaded with her not to tell anyone, because he'd promised not to tell, and he wanted to be a good friend, and Jason didn't deserve it.

"Kitten…" Selina took a deep breath, and she reached for him, her fingers running through his hair. He leaned into her touch, scooting closer as she smoothed his hair back. "There are some things that… need to be brought into the light. Not to everyone, just… the people that need to know. What happened was horrible, but I don't think—"

"You can't tell Batman," Tim said, staring up at her. "I promised him I wouldn't tell, so you have to promise me you won't either!"

Selina looked down at him, her lips parting into a gape. And then she pulled him very close, pressing her chin to his hair. "I'm sorry," she whispered. He broke away from her, staring up at her incredulously.

"I told you no," Tim said, his voice cracking pitifully. She watched him, and he just couldn't fathom why she didn't understand. "You're not telling him. I only told you because I couldn't keep it bottled up. Selina, please, you can't—"

"I have to," she sighed, running her fingers through her cropped black hair. "You… don't understand right now, but someday you will. If you ever have children, you'll get it."

"Selina, that's not an excuse!" He jumped to his feet, anger and betrayal prickling him like pins and needles. "You didn't see what he was like! This will totally mess him up, we can't do that to him. Batman… I don't trust him, Miss S, not with this."

Selina features were soft, and her eyes were like moss, dull green and sad looking. She reached up and took his hands, pulling him very close. "Then trust  _me_ ," she urged him, bopping his chin up with the joint of her finger. She smiled warmly, and he couldn't help but smile back.

"I just… I want him to be okay," Tim whispered. He flushed, and looked away. "I mean, he was so messed up, Selina, so messed up. I didn't know… I had no idea what to do. It was horrible."

"I can imagine," she said, sighing a bit. "Now, the next time someone kisses you without you wanting them to—"

"Miss S," he whined, wincing as she tugged him back onto the couch, hugging him tight to her chest. His voice was muffled by her shoulder. "I'm not a baby, I can totally handle that stuff."

"Which is why you let the poor boy kiss you?" She ruffled his hair, and gave a short  _tsk_. "I thought you said you didn't want him to."

"I don't want to talk about this!" he squeaked, pulling away from her only to bury his face in his hands. His face was burning from his embarrassment. Selina was giggling softly, but she gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"It's okay, kitten," she said. "Sexuality is something you have lots of time to explore. Just not now."

"What's wrong with now?" he asked confusedly, lowering his hands a little bit to expose his eyes.

"Too young," she yawned, stretching her limbs out. "No sex until they show you that video in school."

"What… video?" Tim blinked slowly. "Selina, I don't even think my school has sex ed."

"Then no sex for you," Selina said cheerily, clapping her hand against his head as she stood up.

"Yeah, okay, whatever," Tim grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and flushing. "I'm going to bed."

"You do that."

"Goodnight," he said, waving back to her.

"Have sweet, innocent dreams please," she cooed teasingly. Tim glared back at her, and he clamped his hands over his ears.

"I'm not listening to you!"

Between school and thieving, there wasn't much room for a social life. Tim managed to go out a bit on the weekends, but never for long. Selina often told him that it was okay to have a normal life, and he'd retorted that she couldn't talk. They avoided the topic for exactly that reason. Eventually Tim and Jason met up again, and it was incredibly awkward and confusing. Tim tried to make it be normal, but his thoughts trailed back to the kiss, and the feeling of Jason's tongue sliding against the roof of his mouth.

"I'm really, really sorry," Jason said, resting his elbows on his knees and bowing his head. "I wasn't thinking when I did that stuff. When I said that stuff…"

"I know," Tim said. "It's okay."

"Shut up," Jason groaned, burying his face in his hands. "You're not supposed to be nice about this. You're supposed to kick me, push me off a bridge, I don't care. Just don't act calm."

"I'm not that angry about a little kiss," Tim said, frowning. "Besides, you didn't know what you were doing. I can't be mad at you for that."

"That kiss wasn't exactly… little," Jason said, dropping his hands into his lap. "But hey, whatever, call it what you want."

"I'd probably call it sexual assault," Tim admitted. Jason blanched, and stared straight ahead, visibly flinching at his choice of words. That made Tim feel awful. "But it wasn't, because you weren't in your right state of mind. You'd never have done it if you knew what you were doing."

He nodded vacantly. "I'm surprised you're even talking to me," he said quietly. "If you had done it to me, I'd never want to see your face again."

"We're two very different people, Jay," Tim said.

Jason turned to look at Tim, and he gave him a meager smile. The boy was obviously exhausted, physically and emotionally, but still he smiled. "You've got that right, you little shit," he said, giving Tim a sharp shove. Tim could only laugh, and pray that their friendship was on the track to being mended.

It never got the chance. The incident happened not too long after, and when Selina told him, she'd gotten her news from the Gotham rumor mills, Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn. Not ultra reliable sources.

"Kitten," Selina said, biting her lip as he looked up from his homework. "Tim. Can you come here for a sec?"

Whenever she actually called him by his name, he knew there was trouble. He set down his pencil, moving slowly closer to her. "Miss S?" he asked confusedly. She reached over to him, her slender arms catching him around the shoulders, and she pulled him close. "What's… what's going on? Something's happened, I can tell."

"Tim…" Selina sighed, and she pulled away from him, her fingers winding around his own. "Blue Jay's dead."

The trickle of fear was nothing compared to the confusion that grabbed hold of him. He stared up at her, his eyes taking in the sincere sadness there, and he shook his head. "No," he said. "You're wrong."

She looked away, and he took a step back. "Where did you hear this?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. "People say Batman's dead all the time. Doesn't make it true. Did they get a body?"

"No," she said. She closed her eyes, hugging her arms. "But Harley gets her info right from the Joker."

"They're both not people I would call trustworthy," Tim said, his eyes narrowing. "I don't believe it."

"Tim, it's all over Gotham," she said. "I wanted to… to talk to you before I called Bruce."

"So I could tell you you're wrong?" Tim folded his arms across his chest, giving her a stubborn scowl. Suddenly she was scowling right back, pointing at his face.

"Listen to me, there was an explosion. The Joker beat the poor boy senseless, and when he was done…" Selina reached out, squeezing Tim's shoulders to ease the tension. Fear was crawling through his stomach like worms. "Blue Jay is dead. But… that doesn't mean Jason Todd is."

"Selina…" Tim said, blinking up at her. She gave him a small smile, and reached for the phone. "What did the Joker… do exactly?" Tim wasn't surprised that Jason had gotten mixed up with the Joker. It happened. But never on this scale.

"Harley wasn't too specific, but…" She pressed her lips together as he motioned her to go on. "There was an explosion."

"And now everyone thinks he's dead," Tim said. He took a deep breath. "Doesn't mean he actually is. Call."

She did. It was Alfred who answered, and that left Tim feeling uneasy. "Gimme," Tim said, standing on his tip toes to reach the phone. Instead of giving the phone to him, she merely pressed the receiver between their cheeks, leaning close so she could hear Alfred speak as well.

"—  _understand your concern, Miss Kyle, but I simply cannot disclose any information_ ," sighed the old butler. Tim shifted anxiously, exchanging a look with Selina. " _It's a very delicate situation at the moment, you must understand_."

"All I want to know is if he's alive," Selina said. Tim found himself nodded, his mind abuzz with horror and confusion.

" _Master Jason is_ …" The man seemed to struggle with the words, and Tim grabbed Selina's hand. He didn't know if he wanted to hear it, and truth be told he was ready to run. " _Alive, yes_."

Tim exhaled, leaning his forehead against Selina's shoulder. She, however, didn't look so reassured. "I see," she said quietly. "I won't bother you anymore, Alfred, but… thank you."

"Of course, Miss Kyle."

Selina hung up before he even had a chance to finish speaking. She tossed the phone away, scowling ahead of her. Tim didn't understand why she was so angry. Jason was alive, so what was her problem? "What?" Tim asked her, his eyes widening. "He's not dead! This is a good thing!"

"Hun…" She sighed, running her fingers through her hair. "Just because he's not dead… Listen, just be prepared for the worst. It's best that way."

"Why are you so pessimistic?" Tim asked, his eyes going wide. "You can't be happy with good news!"

"This isn't good news, kitten," Selina said softly. "It's just news."

She had been right, as awful as it had been to admit it. Jason had not been okay. At all. By the time Alfred called them to tell them that Jason was no longer in critical condition, Blue Jay had been confirmed as dead. There was no going back to it, and Tim was left to puzzle out how the world could be so cruel. Life went on, and Tim was stumped on how to cope with that. It was an odd empty feeling, knowing his friend was locked in a slumber and may never awake.

Tim was allowed to visit Jason, finally, a month after Blue Jay had been pronounced dead. The hospital smelled like antiseptic and a plague, and it looked like a horror movie in the making. Too bright, too empty, and too many people who looked half dead. Even the staff appeared to be half through the veil, with cloudy eyes and dead voices.

Jason looked pretty much dead. The heart monitor at his side, and its unremitting beeping, were the only signs of life coming from the boy's limp body. He laid in the hospital bed, tubes feeding into his nose, mouth, arms, and chest. His face was half visible beneath the range of half-healed burns, myriad of cuts, and sallow bruises. His hair had been shaved, and there was a large bandage wrapped around his head, and extra padding around the incision they had made above his left ear. His arms were in casts, but they weren't plaster, because the burns had to be treated every few hours. He looked like a mummy, and it was horrifying.

His left leg was supported, bandaged, and set in a cast. His right leg was not there. It was cut off just above the knee, and the stump left behind was heavily bandaged. They had amputated it quickly, and left them all guessing on whether or not they'd take any more limbs. They were still debating on his right arm, which had been ravaged by flame. But Bruce Wayne refused to have anything else amputated.

Tim gave weekly visits, because he didn't want to run into anyone else Jason might know. Turned out he didn't have many visitors. Bruce didn't come by as often as Tim had thought, and so Alfred came daily in his place. Sometimes they ran into each other, but most of the time Tim was alone. One day, however, he walked into Jason's room and found a girl sitting at his bedside.

He immediately froze in the doorway, his eyes widening as the girl looked up at him. She was slender and pretty, in her early twenties if he had to guess. Her red hair was long and curly, bouncing around her shoulders and her cheeks as she cocked her head. She was sitting in a wheelchair, a book sitting open in her lap. Tim's mouth fell open, and he flushed.

"I'm sorry," he said, stepping back. "I didn't realize there was someone else here."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Why are you apologizing?" she asked, giving a little laugh. "He can have more than one visitor. Are you a friend from school?"

"Um," Tim said, glancing at the comatose boy. "No. My… mom introduced us."

"Your mom, huh?" The girl's eyes twinkled, and she jerked her chin at him. "Come in, I don't bite."

Tim shuffled in awkwardly, standing at the foot of Jason's bed as the girl looked him over once. "What are you reading?" Tim asked, hoping to ease the tension.

"Oh," she said, glancing down at the book. "God, uh,  _The Man Who Laughs_." She held up the cover, and Tim winced. She smiled a little, and shrugged. "Jason was on a Victor Hugo kick."

"And you chose  _that_?" Tim was actually angry with her. Of all the books in the world, that was the book she chose? "That's cruel."

"Jason was in the middle of reading it," the girl said, unfazed by his accusation. "He told me that it was a really interesting look on what makes a person a monster, and what makes them human."

"He never mentioned it," Tim said slowly, sitting down in the chair beside the girl. "I mean, I know he's been reading Victor Hugo stuff, he talked about that, but… really, that book…"

The girl studied his face, and she raised her head, her eyes narrowing a little. "Where exactly did you two meet, again?" she asked.

Tim felt her scrutiny. He stared at Jason, listening to the beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, and the rasping of the breathing tubes. "My mom and Bruce Wayne have a thing," Tim said, never looking away from Jason's marred face. "We kind of just started hanging out while they were doing their thing."

The girl nodded, smiling brightly all of a sudden. "Tim," she said. He looked at her sharply, and she offered her hand. "I'm Barbara Gordon. I knew who you when you walked in, I was just curious. Do you go by Tim Kyle or Tim Drake?"

"Tim Drake," Tim said, staring at her wildly. "How did you…?"

"I make it my job to know this stuff," she said, shrugging. "Especially when it has to do with the Waynes."

"Oh," Tim said faintly. He gave a little wave. "Well, hi."

"Hi." She smiled, but her eyes were very sad. "Do you mind if I keep reading? I'm almost done with the chapter."

Tim stared at her, and then he looked to Jason's slumbering form. He nodded quickly, and her smile stretched wide. He wondered if she was truly happy, or if she was just smiling to make him feel more comfortable. Either way, it was working, and he smiled wanly back. She gripped the edges of the book, and she bowed her head, a stray red curl sliding against her cheek.

And she read. Her voice was very soft and sweet, like the sound of rain drizzling against windowpanes, and wind grazing through a forest of leaves. She had a natural lull to her, and nature seemed to glaze her. She spoke, and her very breath was a tender, but poignant sound, a wisp on the edge of silence and paper fluttering between fingers.

"Keep going," Tim said when she reached the end of the chapter. She looked up at him curiously, and he noted that her eyes were natural as well, pools of glittering water reflecting his pale face. "It's a good story."

"Yes," she agreed, looking back to Jason's face. The boy, marred and broken as he was, lived. And the sound of him sucking air through tubes was enough for them to know it was true. The beeping of his heart, and the rasping of his breath, served as a morose background to her soft voice. She kept reading.

" _The smile of Fatality_!" Barbara spoke with a mellifluous cadence. She seemed to like telling stories, and it was obvious by how she spoke. She liked reading to Jason, and Tim was jealous, because he'd never thought of it, and even if he tried now it could never live up to her standard. It occurred to him that she might do this often, but then, he only visited once a week. " _Can anything more terrible be imagined? It is the last resource of the pitiless trier of_ _souls in his proof of man. The tiger, lurking in destiny, caresses man with a velvet paw. Sinister preparation,_ _hideous gentleness in the monster_!"

She read to the end of that chapter, and Tim listened intently. The story was of a man who had a perpetual smile. That was the face on the cover— a man who looked eerily similar to the Joker. The story was not about any sort of Joker, though. It was just about a man whose appearance plagued him, helped him, and confused him. It was as far from the Joker as it could get, and yet, there was that chilly reminder every time Barbara adjusted the book, and the laughing face was bared.

"Do you like it?" Barbara asked, closing the book. Tim nodded eagerly, watching her smile. It looked genuine, but Tim couldn't be sure. Her eyes were tired, and she seemed to have a perpetual sort of sadness clinging to her. That made him sad too. "He has weird taste. I can never quite peg what he likes, you know?" She gave a little laugh, and Tim smiled. "Like, he loves horrible movies, like horror movies made on a 2,000 dollar budget, but he also likes really cheesy romcoms and, like, have you ever tried watching a Disney movie with him? He's a total sap."

"Treasure Planet?" Tim offered.

"He had to leave the room." Barbara grinned, her entire face lighting up. Tim grinned back at her, trying to contain a giggle.

"He likes a little bit of everything," Tim said, smiling over at the boy in the bed. "Probably the best way to like things."

"Well, Jason likes to experience everything." Barbara said slowly, leaning back.

"And he likes a lot of things."

"Very true," Barbara said. She was staring at Jason, and Tim could sense that she was growing upset. She looked at Tim sharply, and she rolled closer to him. "Hey, Tim, do you want to go to a really boring party?"

His eyes widened. "What?"

"Bruce has this stupid charity thing tonight, and I'm going with my dad, and you should come." She tilted her head, and offered him a hand. "I mean, you got anything better to do tonight?"

Truth be told, he had no plans for that night. And when he told Selina, she thought it was the perfect way to get inside a high security building. "That's my boy," she said, bopping his nose. "You get that Bat attracting thing from me."

"Miss S," he said, looking up at her dully. And he smirked. "I have no doubt in my mind that that is exactly where it came from."

Barbara ended up stopping him before he could steal the jewels, but Selina backed him up. "You're not going to try and stop her?" Tim asked as the redhead dragged him back to the party.

"I'm only responsible for you," she said, shrugging. She smirked at Bruce Wayne when his eyes landed on them. "Also, I like watching Bruce squirm."

Tim studied her pale face, and he gave a short laugh, leaning against the back of her wheelchair. "I like you, red," he said thoughtfully, meeting Bruce Wayne's gaze. Tim wanted him to know how bitter he was that the man neglected his visits to Jason's bedside. So he stared, and kept staring until Barbara laughed, tugging him down by the lapels of his jacket so she could his into his ear.

"I like you too, kit, but so help me if you try a stunt like this again while I'm around, your ass is mine to beat to kingdom come. Got it?"

He managed a nervous smile, and nodded slowly. He didn't doubt that she could do it, even with he wheelchair. Anyway, Tim and Barbara were fast friends. They had the same sense of humor, and they formed a bond over their coupled love of technology. In fact, as their friendship bloomed, Barbara took a new hero identity. The Oracle. And it was so cool, Tim even offered his services to her sometimes.

"You want to play hero?" Barbara asked, letting him into her clocktower for the first time.

Tim looked around, and he gave a meager shrug. "All my shows are on hiatus," he said, looking up at a particularly huge screen. "Gotta fill the time somehow, red."

"Ha ha." Barbara had chopped her hair quite short, and it bobbed around her ears in bouncy curly cues when she moved. "Cute, kit. Very cute. However, how can I trust you?"

"Uh," Tim said, his brows rising. "You let me into your secret lair. I'm thinking you trust me."

"Enough not to do anything to harm me," Barbara said, rolling closer to him. "But not enough to not betray me if it's between me and your mother."

Tim rolled his eyes, and he pointed at the computer. "Add me as a contact," he said. Barbara peered at him from behind her glasses, and he smiled gently. "I'm not all bad, red, and I can be pretty useful."

She watched him, her blue eyes trailing across his face. And then she smiled too. "Maybe," she said, wheeling around to her computer.

He ended up being called into the field not too long after, and his reputation became sort of muddy every since. Villains thought him to be a snitch, and heroes thought him to be a crook. He was both, and he didn't care. Selina defended him, and so did Barbara. It was a fine way to live, and as long as he didn't have to deal with Batman it was fine.

Tim's life was good. It was actually better than good, it was amazing. He had friends, and he had people who loved him, and he had a hobby that was insane and dangerous and stupid, and he loved it all so much he could hardly believe that it was real. It was a glorious thrill, and he was sort of drunk on it. He was morphing from a sad, nervous boy to something else entirely. The line between being Tim and being Catlad blurred fast, and suddenly he wasn't sure if they were even separate personas anymore.

He'd been working on a case for Barbara when he came across a thief. The thief was someone he and Selina had heard of, but never encountered. She was a slender girl, small in stature and her technique wasn't quite polished. She had been taught, but sloppily, and that hindered her. Tim noticed how she did things almost without thinking, relying on instinct instead of plans.

The Spoiler was always cloaked in a deep purple shroud, and it hung around her as she worked, shadowing her face. It rippled around her like silk as she moved, and when he got closer he saw that it wasn't silk, but it was glossy and sleek. And durable. He had to give her props for her taste in garb.

He pushed his goggles up, leaning against a column as she slunk out of the building, a rucksack on her back. He smiled, and he cocked his head. "You know, I've had my eye on that little statue for a while now," he called out to her. He watched her jump and whirl around to face him.

He saw her eyes in the darkness, gleaming white and challenging. "Oh," she said, pressing a hand to her chest. "Phew, it's just a cat."

"What?" Tim grinned, but it was more feral than just that. He bared his teeth at her, and it felt malicious. "Thought I was a big scary bat? Get your eyes checked, Spoiler."

That seemed to startle her. "You know me?" she asked, sounding confused. Then she sounded excited, and it was  _strange_. "That's so cool! How'd you find out? I mean, I've never gotten caught before."

"Somehow," Tim murmured, folding his arms across his chest. "We like to know our competition."

"Oh," the girl said, blinking rapidly. He stared, shock hitting him hard as she pulled the backpack off by its thin strap, and she offered it out to him. The moonlight glistened on the shadowy contours of her purple cloak, and he face was nothing but an obscure smile, and bright eyes. "Here, you can have it if you want."

"Excuse me?" he asked, jolting up straight. Spoiler moved closer, still holding out the faded brown rucksack.

"You said you had your eye on it," she said, holding it out. "So take it, stupid."

"You are not seriously handing me a 40,000 dollar statue," he said, holding up his hands. What kind of trick is this?

"Hmm…" She tilted her head, and she gave a soft laugh. "Nah, you're right. Too easy." She pulled the bag closer to her chest, and she looked at it for a few moments. She snapped her fingers, and she pointed at him. "Okay, how about this? I'll give it to you if you… say…" She grinned, and jerked her arm out, the strap hanging from her wrist, and the bag swaying slightly. "Buy me a cup of coffee?"

"You're not for real," Tim said faintly. He was reaching for the bag, though, moving closer to her. "There's no way that's a fair trade."

"Fine," she said, shrugging. "In Paris."

He grasped the strap of the bag, and she slid her hand away. He unzipped the rucksack, only to make sure the statue was actually in there. "Coffee in Paris, huh?" he said, smirking. He looked up at her, and he shook his head in disbelief. "Why?"

"I've always wanted to go to Paris," she said. She smiled up at the sky, and she cocked her head. "And also, it's not bad to have friends in this business."

There was a truth to that statement that he couldn't help but agree with. He studied her, still never seeing her face, and he zipped up the bag, tossing it over his shoulder. "Give me your phone number," he said.

"Give me yours," she replied, folding her arms across her chest.

They ended up compromising in the end, and they parted with the girl warning him what would happen if he went back on his word. He swore he wouldn't. When all was said and done, he was left with a statue that he didn't know what to do with. In the end, he gave it to Selina.

But the girl never called. That was the odd thing. Tim tried not to think too much of it, but after a few weeks, he knew that something had to be wrong. A girl didn't just trade a 40,000 dollar statue for a date, and not take the date. It made no sense. So he tried calling her. At first the machine that picked up didn't bother him, because she could be elsewhere it was fine. He even learned her name.

" _Hi, it's Steph_!" the girl's sharp, bubbly voice reached through the phone striking a chord with him. " _Totally sucks I can't answer right now, but hey, leave a message for me, kay? Thanks_!"

But he kept getting her machine. And that terrified him.

"Selina," he said, staring at his phone somberly. "I know you have that rule where if they don't call first, they're not worth it, but I'm seriously freaking out right now."

Selina had been lounging in the living room, eating left over Chinese from the previous night. She glanced up at him, and offered up a spring roll, which he took after some contemplation. He sat down beside her, and she gave a sigh, which struck him as peculiar.

"Look," she said tenderly. "I know that you liked the girl—"

"It's not even that, Miss S!" He swung his head back and huffed. "I mean, not that I didn't like her, she was really cool, but like… she's missing, Selina. I know she is, and I have no idea what to do. This isn't my fault, is it?"

"I don't think so, kitten," she said, smoothing his hair back. "In this business, sometimes it's best to move around. Maybe something came up, and she had to run."

"I don't know." Tim pulled up his legs, pressing them tightly to his chest. "Maybe…"

"Don't stress about it, kitten," she said, swooping down to kiss his temple. He stared ahead at the television, and he felt a sinking sort of despair as he let his mind wander. The poor girl could be anywhere, and anything could be happening to her, and he felt like it was his fault.

The Spoiler ended up disappearing completely. Tim tried sleuthing for her, but by the time he looked through her apartment it had been cleaned out. He had no leads, no real knowledge of where the girl might be hiding. Hell, he didn't even know her last name. He was stuck, and he had to let it go. He asked Barbara to help him, but she had found nothing on The Spoiler. And so the world kept turning, and Tim was left with the gnawing guilt.

At seventeen, he'd left behind the gawky child who could never quite comprehend how Catwoman did things. He was now more her son than he'd ever been Janet and Jack Drake's, and that was something that had never quite struck him. He was very comfortable in his own skin, and he was happy to be where he was. He loved stealing, but he also loved helping people. Finding that odd medium was a bit difficult, but eventually he figured it out. He split his nights between working for Oracle, and working for Catwoman. Barbara had a list of the things he'd stolen, and they'd made a sort of deal. So long as Tim kept working for her, she wouldn't turn them in to the police. Which he thought was sweet, all things considering.

"Hey, red!" he called, letting himself into the clocktower. The expansive screens stretching upward and over, the sleek technology gleaming against the dim lights. Tim was reading a through the grocery list Barbara had texted to him, just to make sure he'd got everything. He had the plastic bag resting against his shoulder as he flicked down the list. "So I got you hot chocolate and mini marshmallows, because it's winter and everyone should—"

"Wow, O, you've got kids to do your stuff for you?" A voice chuckled softly, and Tim looked up. "Teach me your ways of persuasion, oh wise one!"

"Shut up, Wally," Barbara said, rolling forward to grab the bag from Tim. He blinked slowly, and stared at the group huddled around the main computer screen.

"Shit," Tim swore. "Titans."

The Titans didn't come to Gotham often, but Catlad had ran into them once when he had been fifteen. He'd almost ended up in jail, but Catwoman had saved his skin just in time. Now that he looked, he saw the boy who had almost caught him was in the group.

"And Teen Titans!" chirped a brunette boy, pushing through to the front and grinning broadly. Tim glanced at the red lightning bolt, and he sighed. Kid Flash. Right. He was going to have to make note of who was here, and warn Selina. The boy glanced around, and he frowned a little. "Well,  _some_  of us."

"Right," Tim said, looking through the group of them, trying to put names to faces.

Flash and Kid Flash were obvious. The boy who had nearly caught him last time he'd faced the group had an S shield emblazoned on his chest, so it wasn't too hard to figure him out. Superboy was watching him with a hint of distrust, and probably was realizing that he knew him. The others were a little tougher. There was a blonde girl with big blue eyes that was watching him with interest, and the more he looked at her attire, he realized that she had to be Wonder Girl. Those three were the youngest, the rest of the group being all adults. There was a scantily clad orange woman who was hovering very close to Barbara's right side, watching Tim curiously. Tim noted that her eyes were very bright, glowing green, and were utterly lacking irises or pupils. The solid glow was enough to unnerve him a little, but she had a sweet face, and her hair fell in unruly red ringlets that melted into a soft orange color.

There were other adults. Another woman stood at Barbara's left side, long faced and attentive. Her hair was shorter than the orange woman's, falling to her shoulders in tumbling black waves. Her eyes were a piercing blue, and her features were soft, except for her severely sharp cheekbones. She wore a glimmering black once-piece suit, a halter that seemed to hug her curves. A second skin, but less garish than what the Flashes wore. The man that was with them was dark skinned, his face half covered by sleek looking armor. He was a big man, and his armor made him look bulkier than he truly was. He was standing at the computer screen, not entirely concerned with Tim's presence.

"Everyone," Barbara said, setting the plastic bag on a table. "This is my friend Tim. Or, as you might know him, Catlad."

Sueprboy's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open in shock and confusion, and possibly anger. His brow furrowed as he was about to shout something, but the armored man beat him to it.

" _Huh_?" The large man's mechanical red eye was the first thing Tim saw, and he stared at him, realizing that the bulk was not armor. "Barb, I thought we were helping to _protect_  the city from criminals!"

"Vic," Barbara said gently. "Calm down. All of you calm down. Tim's a thief, yes, but he's not evil. And as I said, he's my friend, and he helps me."

"But he's a  _thief_ ," Superboy said, his blue eyes narrowed at Tim's face. Tim smiled sweetly back at him, folding his arms across his chest. "And it's kind of our job to, you know, catch thieves!"

"Red and I have a deal," Tim said, watching them all watch him. It was almost amusing how the tone had shifted. Even the Flash boys were watching him with distrust. "She ignores my criminal antics if I make up for it by giving a bit back to society. Like, parole. But more fun."

"You still steal though," Superboy pointed out, his voice brisk and bitter.

"I'm not Batman," Barbara said. "I won't send him to jail if he helps me."

"But that's—!"

"Quiet!" barked the woman with black hair. "This isn't why we're here."

"Yes!" agreed the orange woman, clasping her hands together and smiling. "We should welcome a friend of Barbara's as a friend of our own!"

"Aw," Tim said, smirking a little at the incredulous looks the woman received. "Thanks. So, who are you guys?"

"Oh!" The orange woman floated over to him, landing delicately on her feet, which were clad in boots that reached to her thighs.  _And I thought me and Selina over did the sex appeal thing_ , he thought, his brow raising. "I am called Koriand'r— Starfire, if it please."

"Oh, right." Tim blinked, recalling the girl's name. "Red's talked about you."

"Do you always call her 'red'?" Starfire asked, her green eyes big.

"Yeah." Tim glanced at Barbara who was watching with her arms folded. "She calls me kit. Like, kitten. Anyway, what's going on now?"

Barbara waved her hand quickly, introducing the rest of the crew. Cyborg and Troia were the ones he hadn't recognized. She went on quickly, ignoring any interjections. "This concerns you more than I expected it to," Barbara said, gesturing for him to follow her to the computer. "As you know, Batman's out of town."

"Oh yeah," Tim said, grimacing a little. "Crimes gone way up the last few days. If it makes you feel better, me and Miss S haven't done a job in a few weeks."

"I personally think you should quit," Barbara said. Tim rolled his eyes, and opened his mouth to object, but she waved him off. "An argument for a different day, though. See, Batman is with the Justice League, and they're dealing with something huge. That's not my problem. My problem is, the increasing crime rate in Gotham just nearly cost Jason Todd his life." Barbara retrieved something from her desk, and she tossed it at him.

It was a kunai. Sleek, polished steel glinted in the dim light, and he weighed it in his palm, twirling it and testing the tip with the pad of his thumb. He sucked the bead of blood away, running his tongue over the puncture, and wincing a bit. He glanced up at Barbara, and he felt as if someone had just sucked all the fun out of the room very suddenly.

"I'm in," he said, gripping the handle of the kunai tightly. He felt a spike of fear and rage mingle inside him, a dance of confusion. "Tell me who the son of a bitch was."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, lots going on in this chapter! Barbara is reading The Man Who Laughs by Victor Hugo, which is where all the quotes for this story come from including the title. In Chapter 5, Jason was reading that book to Barbara in the hospital after she was shot. Also I introduced some Teen Titans? I'm not quite sure how it worked in the comics, but here there's basically like three branches of big name hero teams, Justice League, Titans, and Teen Titans. Why is this important? Because though Wally is the Flash in this story, Barry is still the Flash in the Justice League. And why did I make that decision? It was just easier for me personally, idk man.
> 
> Particular amount of cred to Victor Hugo for writing that dumb book, bc you know, without it we'd never have the Joker's beautiful appearance.


	8. The Snatched Spoiler

**{the snatched spoiler}**

  
_-In it, however, the shade of difference which existed_ _between the buyers and the stealers of children is very strongly marked-_   


She had the simple grace to call herself an independent soul. She was free to do as she pleased, and that was a gift in itself. Being free of her father was like being a bird trapped in a horrible cage, and stretching her wings for the first time in her life. It was refreshing, and it made her feel alive and capable. She could be anyone. She could do anything! The sky was hers to conquer, and she was ready for it all. Life was finally starting to make sense, and she felt it all swirling around her, breathing through her wings as they unfurled, and she took flight into the night.

Stephanie Brown still stole things. It was second nature to her, and she didn't have much of a choice. She was a girl who had little skill but what her father had taught her, and she needed the money. So she stole. Sure, she was a little guilty, but she was also kind of proud. At sixteen, she was living better on her own than she ever had with her father. She loved the taste of independence, and she loved to run across rooftops, and she loved the exhilarating feeling of knowing that she was  _good_  at something.

Living life as a crook was like having a large blot on her soul all the time. Simple thoughts plagued her, worry and fear over the thought of getting caught. Stephanie Brown was a good person at heart. She knew she was good. She knew, and she feared a good bit of the time for her well being. She knew it was all very horrible, and she'd end up getting hurt, but the blot on her heart only grew. Light was swallowed by gaping shadow, and the smiley kid crook she had once been turned into a smiley adult crook. She called herself Spoiler. Because why the hell not?

Her chances at a normal life dwindled and dwindled, and the light that she sought after grew dim. Steph knew that her life was going down a dark path. When she was seventeen, she thought that maybe things were looking up. She flirted with the boy, Catlad, and she thought,  _Damn, maybe I can have something that I haven't spoiled for once!_

How foolish she was. The past came back to bite her, and one horrible heist gone wrong had bloomed into a poisonous web that had snagged her before she could fathom what was happening. And a spider came to whisk her away. She had not realized at first what had happened, but it made sense after some quick thinking on her part.

What had happened was, admittedly, her fault. She had gone on a heist a few months previous, and ended up bumping into another thief after the same object. That happened to her a lot. So she simply shrugged it off, and stole the thing anyway. It had been a pesky item, and she'd sold it quickly, not thinking much of it. But the thief had come back for her.

The thief, she found out, was a mercenary. And he was called Deathstroke.

"That," she told him, hogtied in a plane going fuck knew where, "is the most bullshit name I've ever heard in my life, and I used to be called Kid Clue!"

She ended up with a bullet in her shoulder, and a gag in her mouth. She grew terrified and feverish after that, her mind half obscured in slumber. The world was raining stars, and they felt like ice against her skin. Lightning pierced her, sending her jolting and gasping, half on the brink of lucidity, but something dragged her under, a monster in the dark. Perhaps the monster was she, and this was the hell she'd been allotted.

"Wake up."

She was slapped, and it was an iron fist that struck her cheek, forcing her to surface in a tub of ice. In reality, she was laying on the ground, her shoulder hastily patched, and Deathstroke's masked face hovering above her own. She stared, her heart hammering in her chest, and she flinched away as he reached for her.

"I think it's only fair that I apologize," said the man, grasping her wrist. She wriggled and glowered weakly. "However, you went into shock before I was able to. I don't want to kill you, foolish girl. I want to train you."

"Train me?" she repeated faintly. Her words sounded slurred, as if she was drunk on her own pain.

"I've been watching you," the man said, pulling her up straight. She winced and gasped, her eyes flashing around the plane wildly. She didn't know what was happening, and she was rightfully in a state of panic. "You have the makings of a good apprentice."

She glanced up at him, her pale eyebrows furrowing together in a bout of bewilderment and alarm. And then she blurted in a thin, throaty voice, "Oh  _fuck_ no!"

He slapped her again for that, knocking her back down against the thin blanket he'd laid her on. She'd been knocked out soon after— and that was where her training from hell began. See, she had no choice but to follow him. There was no escaping it, and she realized quickly that if she wanted to survive, then she had to obey. That beautiful taste of freedom had been so sadly ephemeral, she was in dismay at how easily her wings had been clipped. She had no independence now, only aching limbs and prayers that were never answered. Eventually she accepted it. She embraced it.

Deathstroke wasn't as bad as her father had been. Deathstroke was smart, and after she proved that she wasn't running anyway, he got kinder. She bore no love for the man, but she learned to trust him. Why? Because the world was cruel, and it only became less cruel when she shut her goddamn mouth long enough to begin listening.  _I'm alone_ , she reminded herself one night, nursing the wound Deathstroke had delivered to her side.  _I've always been alone, and I always will be. But I have to start trying if I'm going to live long enough to keep being alone_.

"Foolish girl," Deathstroke cooed, his blade smashing against her own. She was breathless, sweating, and bleeding profusely from her left leg. She kept going, ducking and swerving around, hissing as she put weight on her injured limb. "You still don't get it."

"Don't care," she hissed, blocking a blow and kicking up her feet, driving them into his chest. She heard herself give shaky cry, and they both toppled back. She, however, actually landed on her back, tears in her eyes, and her leg throbbing with unfathomable pain. Her breathing was erratic as he picked her up by the thin strap of her black camisole. When it threatened to snap, he readjusted his grip to her neck, and she squeezed her eyes shut, her head pounding furiously.

" _Start_ caring," the man barked, his face bare to her, hard and severe, scar tissue visible beneath the dark fabric of his eyepatch. Grizzled stubble crawled across his harsh jaw, and it made him look older than he truly was. His hair was silvery, sheered short. He'd shaved her head when she had arrived, but it had grown out into odd yellow stubble, and now the fine blonde strands ran askew across her forehead. Still shorter than she'd ever had it in her life, but she was glad it was growing.

"Yes, Slade," she mumbled reticently. Then she whacked him across the jaw with the crossguard of her sword. He dropped her, and she stumbled, grunting a little as pain lanced up her leg. She blocked his next blow, and stared up at him with an impassive expression, steeling her features and praying he didn't realize how weak she really was. She felt as though she was about to puke the pain was so intense, and there were tears stinging in her eyes, so she narrowed them.

If Stephanie was steel, then Slade Wilson was metal unearthly. Tempered in hellfire, or the sun, he was a resilient blend of brass and steel, an alloy of brilliance that outshined her and made her feel worthless and forsaken. That left her with sorrow unbidden, and every time she thought perhaps she could impress him, she was left feeling empty and useless.

"Foolish girl," he said, a grim smirk pulling at his thin, wormy lips.

"Stephanie," she told him. She straightened, jerking the point of her sword forward. "My name is  _Stephanie_. If you want me to respect you, then you have to respect me!"

And then, he smiled.  _Maybe I'm not such a disappointment after all_ , she thought as she trudged back to her room, nursing a bloody nose.

She met his daughter only once, and it had been a test of Deathstroke's. The poor girl had already lost her eye trying to impress the man, and she was not ready to lose her life to do the same. Stephanie, however, was desperate. The fight that followed had been pointless and bloody, but after it Deathstroke had given Stephanie an almost affectionate pat on the head.

He took her to the League of Shadows once, introducing her only as Spoiler, his apprentice. She was proud that it got her some semblance of respect. And then, the truth of the visit was revealed in a stage of red and black. Spoiler, who was forced to wear the garish orange she despised since her father had once stuck her in the same awful color, became a coldblooded killer. An executioner. She should have stuck with being Kid Clue, if only then because the dark blot on her heart could have been washed away. Now it stained, seeping through the fabric of her soul and bleeding into her heart and mind, turning her into a dark creature. A girl with morals obscured by pain and fire and a stroke of death.

She'd killed the man quickly, sliding a dagger between his ribs before he even realized that he was at his execution. He'd been a league deserter. She wondered if one day, perhaps she would be in his place.  _I'll know better_ , she told herself. In the following days, she refused to leave her room until she was dragged out by Deathstroke, and warned of the repercussions of her insolence.

"I'm a thief," she spat at him, raising her chin high. "Not a killer. You wanted me to be your apprentice, and I thought you meant that you wanted me to steal. I thought you were making me stronger so I could fight my foes instead of running away. I didn't think you were training me to be an assassin."

" _I'm_  an assassin, dear girl," he said, his voice cold and sharp, piercing her like shattered glass. "And you were a child who needed directing. I've had apprentices before, and perhaps I simply did not expect you to surpass my expectations."

She had no response for that. Instead she shoved him away, and stalked down the corridor, letting him follow at her heels. "If I'm going to kill for you," she said stolidly, feeling worms crawl through her stomach, a plague itching beneath her skin. She felt disgusting, and her conscience was eating at her from the inside out.  _I'm an awful person_ , she thought wildly.  _I'm going to go to hell_. She didn't know if there was such a thing, but she hoped there was a god so someday she could repent. "I want to be Spoiler. I want to look like me. Give me a uniform that suits Spoiler, not Deathstroke's apprentice."

He rewarded her with a mousseline cloak the color of amethysts, and it rippled around her form like purple water. Sheer and thin, it was delicate and beautiful. She wondered why he cared so much as to give her such a gift, when it would just be ruined in battle. But she found it was much more durable than she had credited it for.

She was nineteen, and she knew her place. She did what she had to, and that was a world of guilt and confusion, but she did it. Stephanie could only pray that someday she may break free of the hold Deathstroke had grasped over her, but there was no end in sight. She spent nights thinking, imagining happier scenarios, and letting herself be lost in a field of dreams.

"Spoiler," Deathstroke said to her one evening. She had just gotten back from a mission involving the Teen Titans, and frankly she was a thousand percent done with everyone and everything.

"Yeah?" she asked, plopping down at the table, grabbing his coffee cup. She took a gulp of it, and smirked up at her mentor, setting it back down on the table. "That shit is cold, Slade."

"I've been waiting," the man said, watching her with his one eye staring at her coldly. She balked, wondering what she had done wrong.

"Um," she said, pushing her sheer hood back. Her short blonde hair curled around her chin and forehead, always awry and windswept. "Oh. That's cool. Why, exactly?"

"Well, my dear," a low, archaic voice said from behind her. Stephanie stiffened, her eyes widening as she turned slowly to meet the piercing green eyes of the Demon's Head himself.  _Oh shit_ , she thought, her heart beginning to pound furiously against her rib cage.

"Oh shit," she blurted, jumping to her feet. Deathstroke peered at her, and said nothing, reaching for his coffee with disinterest. "Ra's al Ghul. Slade, what did you do?"

"Spoiler," Deathstroke warned mildly, taking a sip of the grossly bitter, grossly cold coffee.

"That was a serious question," she said, glancing at Ra's with wide eyes. "I know I didn't do anything, so it had to be you."

"I have a job for you, Spoiler," Ra's al Ghul stated, watching her with a mask of pure impassiveness.

"You," Stephanie said, "have a job. For  _me_?"

"Calm, Spoiler," Deathstroke sighed.

"Yeah, yeah," Stephanie said, waving him off. "Okay, wait, back it up. Why me? I mean, no offense, I totally trust your, uh…" She shifted her footing nervously under the legend's scrutiny. "Obviously wonderful judgment. Sir. Great one." She felt Deathstroke shoot her a look, and she let herself go still, and she schooled her features. "But Deathstroke is a seasoned assassin. I've only just begun running field missions on my own."

"I trust that Deathstroke has trained you justly," Ra's said, raising his head high. "And my mission for you is rather simple. In fact, you are not required to kill anyone except perhaps a cripple."

"Oh." That thought made her feel ill.  _Kill a cripple? That's cruel, even for me_. "Uh, sure. Yes, I mean. Yes, sir."

"Deathstroke, leave us," Ra's said, taking Stephanie by the shoulder. She could feel his long, bony fingers through the thin fabric of her cloak, and she met Deathstroke's eye. She stared at him in horror as he took his coffee, giving her a level look before leaving the room _. Stay calm_ , he'd ordered her.  _Don't say anything you'll regret_. She might as well just say nothing at all.

Once Deathstroke was gone, Ra's grasped her wrist, and yanked her very close. She tried to wrangle her emotions, but terror had an iron grip on her, and she stared up at the man with wide eyes. His green gaze was near the point of glowing, a crazed effect of the legendary pit that kept him alive. She could hear herself breathing, and she was hyperaware of it, wondering if he could tell how panicked she was growing by the sudden change in her breathing regulation.

"Listen to me very carefully, girl," he whispered, gripping her wrist tight enough that she let a little breath of pain slip through her teeth. "Nothing I tell you next will leave your mouth. You will not tell a single soul, and if you do, I will have your tongue, and that is only where I will start." He lifted her chin with the tip of his finger, and Stephanie shuddered involuntarily, her eyes flashing away. She didn't like the way he was staring at her, as if she was a piece of meat.

"Yes, sir," she said, her voice soft and demure. "I understand. Not a soul."

"Then sit." He released her, and she blinked rapidly, dropping into the chair behind her. Vaguely she wondered what was so important that the man couldn't wait for them to come when summoned, and instead came to them. "This mission is dire. And if you fail, I will make certain you suffer a fate far worse than death. Do you understand, little girl?"

"Yes," she said weakly. Her mind was revving on overdrive, and she thought she might scream in panic. What if she failed? She wouldn't know what to do. "I understand."

"Then let me begin," the man sighed, sitting down across from her. "First you must know your objective. A ghost has escaped me. Catch him and bring him home, unharmed, and you shall be handsomely rewarded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figuring out what to do with Steph was a little tricky. Deathstroke was my top option because I have a soft spot for Deathstroke. So everyone is an assassin except Timmy and Jason. Ha ha oops.
> 
> Cred to Victor Hugo. Because, you know. He's a cool old dude.


	9. The Wayward Ghost

**{the wayward ghost}**

_-"To wander is to grow," Ursus said-_

The concept of love always confused him. He read about it, vaguely aware that it was some sort of emotion that people felt for each other. He knew it could be attraction, but he was uncertain of its property. He asked his grandfather, and was told little and nothing. Love was mystery, and so Damian connected it to the world outside. He stitched in his head with a filament of wonder and gold, that if love was so untouchable, it was the sky.

He wrote in the sketchbook Grandfather had kindly given him when he'd requested for something to do when not training or reading. He wrote, because he could, but the hazy letters weren't very good. His sketches were better. He drew the sunset, the only one he'd ever seen, and he drew in over and over and over again. He drew a tree he'd seen twice, and he drew Grandfather, and he drew what little of the world he knew. And he wrote, penning his ceaseless, begging thoughts on paper, because otherwise he didn't know if he'd contain himself. He might ask Grandfather something he shouldn't, and get punished for that.

 _Love_ , he wrote over a delicately shaded drawing of what he thought, perhaps, his mother might have looked like. Against the yellow paper the face was round, the ink heavy around her large, sharp eyes, which were the same shape as his. He'd had to look in the mirror to capture the contours of his own cheekbones, sharp and sinking into his cheeks, only for his face to go round again. He drew that, and touched his lips, feeling the fullness of them. He drew her lips as he felt his own to be, plump and pouting. Her chin, he decided, would look different. Maybe... sharper. Damian ran his fingers over his chin anyway, feeling its shape. Her nose was sharp too, like Grandfather's. Damian's was round and small, fitting oddly on his face. He gave her long, flowing black hair. He inked every individual strand with great care, the process of penning the tumble of waves causing his hand to cramp. His vision was obscure, but even he could see that the woman he had drawn was beautiful.  _If only you were real_.

He wrote in letters that blotted together, ink bleeding from pressing far too long, and not noticing. Damian's vision would never be up to par, but he did fine with what he had. He wasn't blind. He could see things, he just saw it fuzzy. He had to fill in the haze with his imagination, and his imagination was filled with inky blots and colors that faded fast from memory. He wanted to understand things, but there was only so much he could ask, and only so much that was answered.

 _Love_ , he wrote,  _is a fleeting emotion, which I imagine to cling to all things unreachable._   _Love is something I cannot explain, because no one has explained it to me. I know it is a feeling, but I have never felt it. And so, I connect this fleeting feeling to the world that abhors me. Love exists in the same way that stars do. I have never seen the stars, but I know that they exist. I know that stars burn, and then they die. Love, I think, might just be the same. If love is an emotion, then emotions fade. Like all good things, maybe, and that is why love is untouchable, unreachable, and unfathomable. Love, perhaps, is Mother._

He never reread the passage again, and he liked to pretend he never wrote it at all. He cherished the drawing, and loathed himself for writing on the page. He should have left well enough alone. He should have known not to mark such a beautiful portrait. He spent his nights staring at the ceiling, rubbing the bridge of his nose where his tinted glasses had chafed his skin to the point where there seemed to be a permanent indentation. He despised himself, and he despised the world for cursing him.

Damian was a ghost, if a ghost ever did exist. Even his teachers called him a ghost, and he wasn't sure they even knew his name. Did anyone, besides himself and Grandfather? Damian wondered, and he drew. He drew himself, hazily trying to pen his features and retouch them. Yes, force the white hair to become inky black, and get rid of the glasses in order to see eyes that were… green, perhaps? Damian did not know what color his eyes would be, if he had been born normal, but Grandfather's eyes were the only other set of eyes he'd ever seen. Everyone else wore masks.

"Grandfather," Damian said, staring at his plate. "Do I… have any siblings?"

"Excuse me?"

"Siblings." Damian looked up, and he held his head high. He was still an al Ghul. He would act like one. "Mother obviously had no other children, but my father… but Batman… Is it possible? He never married Mother."

"No," Grandfather said, giving a short sigh. "No, he did not. And no, you have no siblings…"

Damian could sense the  _but_. He straightened, staring at his grandfather with rising eyebrows, his body stiffening to the point where he looked rigid. "What is it, Grandfather?" he asked, laying his palms flat against the table.

"Your father…" Grandfather studied him, and his eyes glinted almost in amusement. It was an odd thing. "Your father does have a ward he cares for. A poor, crippled thing, really… He's been comatose for years."

"Years," Damian repeated. Confusion and resentment pricked his heart.

"Yes, the poor boy was a victim of the Joker." Grandfather cocked his head, and smiled grimly. "Have I spoken to you about the Joker?" he asked.

"No," Damian said, shaking his head. "I know of him, of who he is to Batman, but I don't know what he did."

"He kidnapped Blue Jay. Did a sure number on him before he detonated the building the boy was in."

"That should have killed him," Damian said ruefully.

"It's a better fate, I'd imagine," sighed Ra's al Ghul. "After all, who would want to live on as a cripple?"

Damian looked at himself in the mirror that night, his grandfather's words echoing in his mind.  _But I'm not cripple_ , he told himself.  _I'm just a ghost. A monster. And monsters should prey on the weak_. He wondered how his father must have felt, to have a cripple for a son. A cripple or a beast, he thought gravely, playing with the handle of his door. It was old, and it was growing weak. He only needed a tool to wedge it free in the night.

He stole a knife from his table one evening while dining with Grandfather. He began to hide knives during training as well, so the teacher could not take them all. Steadily he began to form a collection of assorted shurikens, kunais, daggers, poisons, darts, and spikes. The crown jewel would be the katana he trained with everyday. So when he killed his teacher and stashed the weapon behind his bed, no one thought much of it. His grandfather complimented his speed and agility and force, and Damian nodded, not too concerned with the fancy of pride.

He had an entire arsenal on him the night he set himself free. Before wedging the knob off his door, he swiftly flipped through his sketchbook, taking the picture of his mother and ripping it out. He wanted to have her face with him, if only an imagined version of it. He tucked it between the folds of his clothes, between a dart and a dagger. And then he ran, removing the knob in silence, and bolting from his tower as fast as he could.

He wore muted colors, blacks and reds blending into neutral hues. He had donned a cloak, and wore gloves, and covered the majority of his face with a thick red scarf. Nothing was visible. He liked this, because it made him feel like no one could catch him. He put his training to the test, and killed only about three men to whisk himself away and take a boat to the mainland. He'd killed two of his guards, and another guard that had spotted him.

He killed a few more men along the way, but he didn't think much of it. The world was fresh, and dark, and there was a haze the clung to the night like a mist, and he was enthralled with it. He could not see the stars, because his vision was too poor, and his glasses were tinted, but he could sense them there. It felt good to sense things. And those senses saved his life more than once. He was nearly caught come dawn, and when he was on the mainland he'd almost been whisked away. He stowed away on a boat, and he waited. He was patient. He hid away from the world, careful to avoid sunlight, and he made his way to America.

He did not plan to meet his father. That would be too horrible to bear. No, Damian planned on sparing his father a great deal of shame by eradicating the source of the problem. If Damian could do the same to himself, he would, but his grandfather thought he was worth something alive, so how could Damian disagree? He was an al Ghul. He had no need for weak thoughts such as suicide.

It would be better for the boy as well. Damian would not want to live, if it was him in the boy's place. No, better to give him a good death, be merciful while the boy still slept. Damian was a monster, sure, but he was also a ghost. And ghosts were death and silence. That was how the boy would die. Silently. No fuss, no pain. It would be best for them all, and Damian's father would not have to worry any longer.

The world was a blur. Damian could not quite understand it. He spoke a multitude of tongues, and when he was finally caught, he could only blurt out his destination. "Gotham?" he offered. "Gotham City?"

He was taken there by ship. The ship docked many places, but Damian was put in a cabin, and when he was asked to take off his bulky clothing, he had to refuse. "It protects me," he said.  _And you_. The entire ship seemed to hate him, and he got sea sick for a duration of the trip. The feeling of nausea plagued him everywhere he went, and the wonder of the sea was torn from him. He hated it, and he hated the weakness. He wanted to understand how the world worked, but all the ship did was make him hate water, and hate confinement even more.

He sat huddled in his cabin, curling within his heavy cloak. It was grayish and tattered, but its hood covered his hair and eyebrows, falling over his face in a heavy rumple of folds and dark ashen fabric. The cloak fastened at his left shoulder with a silver broach. It was an eye, enameled red and piercing, spliced like a cat's. A demon's eye, a ghost's eye, a monster's eye. It was the only thing that suggested who he could be, and he was reluctant to get rid of it.

Damian didn't like to speak to the crewmen. They tried to approach him, but he did not react or respond, and when they reached for him he fled. He heard them whispering about him, and he knew they assumed something else besides the horrible truth. They didn't realize what a monster he was, and it was best that way. He feared rejection, and so he kept himself hidden. Grandfather had taught him that the world was cruel to monsters like him, and thus he warily waded through life. He needn't bother himself with people, because they would never accept him. That was the truth that Grandfather had hammered into his brain from when Damian was old enough to crawl.

The matter of trusting the crewmen was not an issue. Damian didn't trust them. He left the boat immediately when it ported, and was quick to run. It was broad daylight, and his senses were a tumble of obscure buzzing and mingled scents and hazy vision and humid air. His body felt shaky, and he berated himself for being weak, because he knew it was just proving what he knew already to be true. He was a glorious disappointment.

Damian refused to be the weakling that Grandfather believed him to be. If he was a monster, he wanted to prove it. He wanted to rip the world apart with teeth and claws, and he wanted to watch the bleary city erupt in ash and glow and heat. Damian was in bitter shock when he found himself in the midst of towers and screeching horns, and so many people that he had to clamp his hands over his ears, his eyes going wide behind his glasses. He pushed through crowds, shuddering and hissing through his teeth at the physical contact.

 _Is this what I've been missing all this time?_  He looked up at the blurry haze of grayish clouds and mist and smog. The sky was different here, like something had breathed into the expanse of blue and left it a foggy mess of fluffy darkness and obscurity. Damian squinted, and shook his head. He was in shock over what the world was revealing to him, but even so, he had to be strong. He used what Grandfather taught him to sweep through the streets, collecting information about the son of Bruce Wayne. The poor, decrepit boy who was half dead anyway. Damian had no qualms against being cruel, but was it such a cruelty to put down the boy who was barely living at all?

Of course, Damian could not be sure. He was not sure of very much, and he struggled to understand the things around him. He understood what the automobiles were, and he understood the mobile devices, and he did truly understand the concept of the city and the people, but what he could not grasp was the normalcy. People lived this way, truly? He wondered what that was like, and found that he had no taste for it. He pretended he was not at loss with everything he was experiencing, and instead focused on his objective. He was an al Ghul, and he would accomplish what he had set out to do. And he would prove that he was not so frail as it was believed that he was.

He had to be careful. He didn't want to run into his father, despite… no. No he didn't want to see his father.  _It'll only end badly_. Damian feared what his father might think of him, of how disgusted he would be with such a weak, monstrous child. He didn't want to think about it.

Damian did not think that his attire was odd. But in comparison to those around him, perhaps it was— after all, he was garbed in layers and layers of thick, dark fabric. Beneath his gray cloak he wore a vermillion, dupion tunic, and beneath that a black thawb sliced in half to allow his legs to move. Instead of it being a robe proper, it was more like another cloak beneath the cloak. And beneath all that, he wore shalwar— drawstring trousers that were quite loose around his skinny legs. His face was covered by a thick woolen scarf, a brighter red than his tunic, and eventually he managed to cover his hair with it as well. He was careful to cover himself, and he noticed he wasn't alone in that. It was very chilly, and most of the passersby wore thick coats and hats and gloves as well.

It was nearly nightfall when he slipped into the hospital. He was silent, and unnoticed— after all, he was a ghost. He found himself thinking that the hospital was odd, and nothing like what he expected it to be. Was this what was done with the sick and weak? If Grandfather hadn't the need of him, would this be the awful place where Damian had ended up?  _He didn't want to think about it_ , he was so scared of the idea. He was lucky Grandfather had entertained his kindness.

He found out Jason Todd's room number by hiding and listening. He crept to the door, his mind abuzz and his heart hammering. The truth was, Damian wasn't sure what he was trying to prove. Killing a cripple meant very little, after all. It was the fact that he'd escaped Grandfather's watch and made it this far, that was what he'd been trying to accomplish.

But Damian was still going to kill Jason Todd.

He slipped into the room in silence, the door closing behind him as if he'd never opened it at all. He already had four kunais between the fingers of his right hand, but he soon realized he had a problem. There was a woman sitting at the boy's bedside, and she had noticed him.

He stared at her chair in confusion.  _Wheels_ , he thought, feeling stunned.  _What is that contraption?_  The woman was fair of face— and Damian could not help but feel a strange rush as her hazy face became clearer. She was moving closer, and he stood in shock, frozen by his inability to process the new set of variables.

"Who are you?" the woman asked, her eyes flickering. He couldn't tell what color they were. He squinted, and realized with a start that they were  _blue_.  _Like the sky!_  He had never known eyes could capture such a brilliant color.

And suddenly she was moving, and he remembered his objective. He flung one kunai, and dove for the boy when he saw that the woman had whipped out an eskrima stick, lodging the point of the blade within it. She was fast, and that was a shock to Damian, who was whacked away from the boy's bed. Damian landed on his feet, slicing through the woman's arm and kicking at the wheels of her chair, his panic overrunning his care for fulfilling his goal. He heard her give a sharp gasp as she split over— like water from a glass that he crashed to the floor— and she and the chair fell sideways.

Damian aimed another kunai at the boy's jugular. He noticed that his face was very pale.  _Like mine_. His hair was brown, fluffy and curling across his forehead in dark waves. His lips were parted, and Damian could hear him breathing. Shallow breaths, as if he were only sleeping, his chest rising and falling steadily. That made Damian falter for a moment, trying to sort out the situation. He'd been expecting something like a corpse— this boy was merely asleep.

He gasped as something smacked against the back of his knees hard, and he was forced to the ground, kicking and twisting. The woman had pinned him down and he blinked, seeing her face almost completely clearly. He'd never been so close to a woman before, and staring at her round, scowling face made him wonder.  _Did Mother look anything like you?_

He kicked her hard, his foot slamming into her chest, and he sprung to his feet and flung himself at the window, fear and uncertainty forcing him to retreat. That shamed him. He had failed at doing something so  _simple_ , it made him sick! The window shattered around him, and he found himself spiraling downward, his body falling into the wind. He stabbed his remaining kunais into the side of the building, and he hissed as they screeched in his ears, carving three long lacerations into the glimmering side of the building.

He dropped himself to the ground, readjusting his glasses, and stalking off in a huff.  _That should have gone better_ , he thought bitterly. But the boy was not going anywhere. Damian had time later to try again. Until then, his stomach was making a noise that resembled man choking through a mouthful of his own blood. He didn't like it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian was taught basics through books, but otherwise he was just an incredibly sheltered child. He doesn't know very much about the world, because he was never taught much about the world.
> 
> Cred to Victor Hugo. This is the only quote I've chosen so far to mention the name of one of the characters from The Man Who Laughs, Ursus.


	10. The Broken Bird

**{the broken bird}**

_-In such cases the question of life and death is balanced thus: if the wave carries the vessel on the rock, she breaks on it and is lost; if the billow retires before the ship has touched, she is carried back, she is saved-_

There were worms crawling out of his mouth. He stood in front of a mirror, which was grimy and old, its reflection a haze of fog and wisp. He was naked and small, all bones and flimsy skin, and there was no light in the bathroom but for a candlestick dwindled to a stub, with a flickering flame so weak and lifeless, it could sputter out of existence at any given moment. There was something behind him, but he could only see the dim outline of his own face, gaunt and sunken and dead.

His mouth was parted, and his knuckles were white against the stained, scummy sink. He gripped the edge as he gagged, insects scratching at his throat, fluttering and squirming, dropping into the sink with the pattering of droplets. Blood slid from his tongue,  _plop plop plop_ , glistening in the firelight. He was breathing heavily, heaving as he puked up worms and dead things, moth wings caught in his windpipe, spitting into a basin with flecks of red. He coughed, and blood splattered across the grimy glass, flecking his pallid face like a dance of bloody freckles.

He was thin white skin and protruding bones. He was no different from the scum sticking to the sink he clung to, and he trembled as he stared, bleary eyed, spitting squirming, dancing insects into the pit below him. He shuddered, and rasped, and he felt fingers trailing down his spine. Cold fingers, icy trails that stung and bit at his paper-thin flesh. He stretched his body, legs and flailing, squirming organisms dangling from his mouth.

"Where to start?" a voice whispered against his skin.

He objected, but there were worms in his mouth.

He was laid onto his back, blinded and squirming, and there were worms in his mouth. He choked, and he twisted, fighting at the darkness and coughing, blood and fire and pain stretching out and consuming him. He felt fire writhing inside him, and it felt like being torn apart. It was a disgusting pain, a searing flight of flame and fancy.

There was a manic laughter that hissed through the darkness, the acoustics so beautifully horrible, it echoed and echoed, a trail of forever laughs that stretched and yawned and mingled with the hiss and spit of and explosion, of grunts and wet noises and screams. He was being kissed by death, and his body was convulsing, blood running down his right thigh and bursting into flame. He tried to scream, but there were worms in his mouth.

The agony was ecstasy, and the ecstasy agony. Life and death danced around him, two glowing forms of hate and love and spitting fire and smoking ice. They locked and wed and split apart, dancing a forever dance and clawing at each other fighting with elongated teeth and fingers dragging across his chest, laying down their claim to him.

He was in a thrumming cage of pure pain, and he wanted to cry, to scream and thrash, and he tried, and tried, but there were worms in his mouth and he spat, but they crawled across his skin, and more erupted from his throat. He wanted death, and he wanted life, and he wished they would quit their game of love and hate, quit teasing and tearing and kissing and just do what they came to do to him.

He felt like he was being tugged in all directions, wanted everywhere, but wanted by no one. He hissed and gurgled, spitting worms and choking on screams that never made it out. He was breathing, but that was all. His leg was on fire. And then it was on ice. And then it was numbed completely, and it was numb forever and ever and ever.

Something whizzed past him, his instincts going wild as the screeched for him to run, and something clicked inside him.

Faces were blurring into each other, and he was in a feverish spasm, reaching and hoping and begging, because he only wanted to see one person, and he knew he had to be somewhere. The world was nothing, just an expansive stage of darkness, a screen of black. He was reaching and spitting, worms caught in his throat, and he felt tears in his eyes. The fire was a faded memory. There was a light somewhere, and he felt the love and the hate, the laughter fading and bursting into soft, lulling  _beep_ - _beep_ - _beep_ ing, and life devoured death before him. He felt itching claws yanking at his ribcage, and he rasped, swallowing worms.

There was a face in his head, and it disappeared.

He gurgled, and his body felt stiff and numb. His lips were unyielding, puffy and tingling. There was nothing crawling from them, though. There were no more worms. And it was a relief unlike any other. He felt a tickle in his throat, and in panic he released it, thinking it was a squirming insect ready to burst forth into the abyss.

" _Bruce_ …"

It was a choking whisper, his own voice cracking miserably. He saw nothing, but he felt air moving into his lungs. And he wondered. Had he really just spoken?

There was a flutter of motion. He listened, and he heard nothing. His fingers twitched, and his eyes did too. He wanted someone. He wanted to see his face, and he was so scared and desperate, he shook his head, feeling something soft press against his hand. Soft, gentle, like a downy cloth washing away the grime and the blood, and the fire guttered out.

His eyelids peeled back stubbornly. They immediately snapped shut, and he flinched, his heart thundering against his chest as pure white stung his vision, stinging tears into his eyes. There was a buzzing inside his ears that he couldn't get rid of, but he could hear beeping.

He opened his eyes again, and this time he saw a blurry silhouette amongst the white.

"Shit," Jason whispered, blinking rapidly. "Ow."

His voice felt like a long thread of hair being pulled excruciatingly slowly from his throat, tickling his insides with discomfort and panic. His eyes flickered blindly, and he felt pressure on his fingers, so he yanked his hand back. He looked around, and he shakily felt around, his eyes widening as he felt wires protruding from his arms.

"No," he mumbled, his eyes squeezed shut as he yanked the wires out. Something went wild inside the room. He was laying in a bed, and he felt a growl in his throat, he shoved and struggled, feeling someone grab him. "Let go!" he snarled, his vision becoming clearer.  _Hospital_ , he thought with a pang in his heart.  _Oh fuck me_.

He pushed back his blanket, and he flung his legs over the side of the bed, jumping to his feet.

He shrieked as he toppled over, his entire body crashing to the floor in a heap of aches and tangled limbs. He blinked fast, and he could feel his left leg shaking. His right leg felt numb. He felt someone rush to his side as he pushed himself to his knees, and toppled over once again into the arms of whoever the fuck decided to grace him with their presence.

He took one glance at his leg, and felt his stomach turn to ice. "My…" he whispered, clinging pitifully to the shirt of the boy who was trying to pacify him. "My…"

"It's okay," the boy said, his voice soft and lulling.

"No," he gasped, unable to tear his gaze away. "My  _leg_."

"I swear it's gonna be okay," the boy said, gripping him by the shoulders. "Someone— Nurse! Anyone, come on, nur—"

"No!" Jason's head snapped back to the boy, whose face was still sort of blurry. Jason's voice was raw, and it trembled as he hissed. "Get me  _out_  of here!"

"Wha…?"

"Get me the fuck out of here!" Jason glanced around fast. "Now!"

"Okay." The boy scooped him up as if he was nothing, and ran out of the room.  _Holy shit, that was easy_. Jason hadn't expected that.

Some nurses noticed, but the boy dodged them easily, and deposited Jason into a wheelchair. He was then pushed rather roughly down the hall, and at one point the boy gave him a sharp shove, sending him flying down the hall as he dealt with pushing away some rowdy nurses. Jason was dizzy when he was yanked to a stop, but he didn't object. He was sort of half-asleep, trying to understand what the fuck was happening.

Somehow, by some strange witchcraft, the boy had fucking done it. Jason was in awe by him, and so thankful he couldn't even really believe it himself. "Shit," Jason breathed, squeezing his eyes shut as the boy pushed him through a park. "What the fuck just happened?"

"I don't know, Jay," the boy said, giving him a weak smile as he looked around. He was a tall boy, and the clearer his face became, the more Jason had this nagging feeling he  _knew_  him.  _God, who the fuck drugged me up this bad, I need to punch them out_. "You wanted out. I didn't know what else to do."

"Right," Jason said, feeling dazed. There were children playing not so far away. Three of them, a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette. They were playing soccer with a beaten up ball, and Jason watched as it rolled in front of them. Jason bent to pick it up, and a dark skinned girl with big brown eyes and a mess of brown curls ran to retrieve it. When Jason handed it over, she took it and stared at him. "What?" he asked, his eyes narrowing at her.

She blinked, her eyes widening. The early morning sun glinted against her round, sweet looking face, and he knew she couldn't be more than ten. She gave him a big smile, her teeth white and a little crooked. "Thanks!" she chirped, spinning and rushing back to her friends, who were watching him with an eerie sort of interest.

"Cute," the boy behind him said, pushing him forward.

"Creepy," Jason corrected.

The boy sounded amused as he said, "Well, you  _are_  wearing a hospital gown, dude."

Jason looked down at himself, and he grimaced. "I'm also missing a leg,  _dude_ ," he snapped.

"I'm sorry," the boy said. He sounded earnest, and it made Jason uncomfortable. Their stroll was becoming sort of unnerving, and Jason just wanted to go home already. "I'm sure you'll get a really badass prosthetic that has like, a cannon in its kneecap or something."

"That," Jason said, his mind abuzz with clearing fog, "sounds really cool, actually. Tell me more."

"Hm." The boy turned, and they took a backroad alley. That made him uncomfortable. "Let's go to my place. I need to call Red so I don't get arrested for uh… kidnapping you."

"Red?"

"Oracle."

" _Oracle_?" Jason's mind was truly beginning to clear, and he groaned, clutching his head. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Oh." The boy sighed, and Jason craned his neck to try and get a better look at his face. "Right. Sorry, I'm… forgetting. You missed a lot."

"Well shit," Jason said, scowling ahead of him. "That's a huge goddamn surprise.  _Explain_ , you piece of shit!"

"Sorry!" the boy squeaked. Now  _that_  sounded familiar. Jason froze, and he stared blankly ahead of him for a few moments as the boy rattled off an explanation that made no sense at all.  _Tim_ , he thought numbly.  _Wait_ ,  _when the fuck did bitty Catlad grow up?_

When he was done speaking, all Jason could choke out was, "Your voice is different."

Tim gave a short, sharp laugh, and even that sounded different. Deeper, somehow. How long had Jason been in the hospital for? He tried to get a grasp on whatever the boy had said, but he just couldn't sort it out. "Yeah, I guess four years does that."

That struck Jason like a blow to the stomach. " _Four years_?!" he cried, gripping the armrests of his wheelchair tightly. "What the  _fuck_?"

Tim gave him an apologetic smile. They reached a nicer street, and the boy sighed. "You didn't listen to anything I just said, did you?"

"What is going  _ **on**_?"

"You were in a coma," Tim said, stopping before a ratty apartment building. "You don't remember the explosion?"

"Do I look like a dude who remembers anything right now?" Jason groaned, his head falling into his hands. It was pounding, and the headache was growing into a migraine. He wanted to sleep, but fuck that, he's been asleep for  _four fucking years, what the fuck, oh my god_.

"I'm really sorry."

"Stop apologizing!" Jason pinched his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "Stop talking, stop explaining! I don't want to hear it!"

"Okay." Tim opened the door, maneuvering the wheelchair up and through the door. "Sorry, the building isn't wheelchair friendly."

"I don't care."

Jason heard Tim inhale sharply, as if he was about to say something but decided against it. They took the elevator to Tim's floor, which Jason was thankful for. He kept staring at the stump of his leg, wondering what explosion had stolen it from him.  _Four years_. A chunk of his life, gone in an instant. It was horrifying.

"Selina!" Tim called, pushing Jason through the door to the apartment. Jason had never been there before, nor had Tim ever been to the manor. It was sad, now that he thought about it. The living room was a disheveled mess, but homey all the same. Tim tossed his keys into a dish, and looked around, pushing Jason one-handedly into the den. "She must not be home."

Jason did not reply. He was staring at the stump with disdain.

"I'm really glad you woke up," Tim said, flicking at his cellphone. "Some crazy stuff has been happening lately. I'm just glad that you're okay. Like, you don't seem to have gone out of your mind while asleep, so thank god for that."

"I'm missing a leg," Jason said dully.

"I know," Tim sighed. He pressed his phone to his ear, and gave Jason a small smile. "Don't worry too much."

"I'm missing my fucking leg, you bastard."

"Red!" Tim's eyes narrowed at Jason in warning, and he ignored it. "Hey, yeah, that was me. I stole him."

"You didn't steal anything." Jason scowled, folding his arms across his chest. "You politely got me the hell out of that pisspot of a hospital."

"Politely," Tim repeated, smirking. "Yes, I think that's a great word for it. I politely removed him from the hospital."

"Who is that?" Jason rolled himself closer to the boy. "Is it Bruce?"

"No," Tim said, shaking his head. "It's…  _yes_ , Red, he's awake! I know, I don't know how it happened, he just woke up all of a sudden. Maybe the attack just triggered something? I don't know, but he's pretty okay. I mean, okay enough to insult me. I think that's pretty okay, you know?"

"I don't," Jason said.

"Shh." Tim was much taller now, his shoulders broader, and his face slimmer. He wasn't a giant or anything, but from where Jason was sitting he looked pretty damn tall. The boy had always had a sweet face, an open book of emotions laying in his eyes. That was no longer the case. Jason could not see the world of wonder that had always clung to the boy's gaze. Instead it was replaced with layers of masks and lies, and it was confusing and harsh, and Jason felt uneasy. "I know I should have alerted you right away, but I wanted to get home first. It's hard to move him around, so maybe you can have someone come pick him up and take him to you? I mean, you've got a Kryptonian, an Amazon, and half a robot— Oh."

"What?" Jason asked, not even bothering to think about anything he'd just said.

Tim glanced at him, and he gave him a genuinely bright smile. "Hey, Red, can I talk to Cyborg?"

" _Who_?" Jason knew who Cyborg was, of course, it was just a shock to hear his name.

Tim gave him an offhanded wave, and Jason found himself fuming. "You little shit," Jason hissed, rolling forward, trying to aim a kick at Tim's legs. He was too fast, though.

"Hey, so I know you don't seem to like me much," Tim said, balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder as he fended Jason off. "But how do you feel about maybe whipping up a prosthetic leg?"

"Whoa, wait." That caught Jason's attention and he straightened up reaching up at the phone, but Tim swatted his hands away. "Did you say prosthetic? Like, for me?"

Tim shot him a glower that confirmed it. Jason settled down, smiling in contentment. "Cool," Jason murmured, folding his arms across his chest. He stared at his stump for a moment, and he realized something. "Fuck, it's going to take forever to learn to walk again, isn't it?"

"Maybe?" Tim ran his fingers through his hair, pulling the phone from his ear. Jason could hear Cyborg talking. "I don't know, Jay. We'll see. For right now, we need to get you to a safer place than my apartment."

"Why not, say, I don't know." Jason glared up at the boy, contentment sliding away and replacing with resentment. " _Home_?"

Tim looked apologetic, and Jason took a deep breath, wheeling himself around and pushing himself toward the apartment's kitchen. "I want to talk to Bruce," Jason announced, hearing Tim follow him. "Call him."

"I can't." When Jason turned his head to look at him, he quickly tried to amend himself. "He's not here! I don't know how to get in touch with the Justice League. Selina might, but I don't know where she went off to."

Jason felt bitter and enraged, and he rolled away so he wouldn't have to respond to the fucker.  _Of course he'd be gone_ , Jason thought, glaring at his stump of a leg.  _Why would he stick around for me, anyway? The world's so much more important_. When Tim set a glass of water in front of him, Jason hurled it at the wall, wheeling himself away before it even shattered. He didn't respond when Tim asked him if he was okay, because of course he wasn't. Was the boy stupid?  _Of course he wasn't okay_.

"I want to go home," Jason said, glaring ahead of him. He shoved Tim away when the boy reached out to touch him, and he directed his glare at him, feeling rage and pain and a crippling sickness build inside him. "Just take me  _home_ , I don't get it, what's the big fucking deal?"

"I'm so sorry," Tim said, his eyes widening. "I know this is really hard—"

"You have  _no idea_  what this is like!" Jason felt tears prickling his eyes, and he forced them back. He didn't know if they were tears of rage or sorrow or pain. "I don't know what's going on! I just woke up, and— and I'm missing  _four years_  and a  _leg_ and  _Bruce_ , and I can't deal with this, okay? Just take me home!"

"I'll call Alfred," Tim said. Hearing the butler's name soothed Jason's anger a little, and he quieted down enough to stare up at Tim with a dead gaze. He pulled out his phone, and he flicked through his contacts. "I can't take you home, though."

"Why?" Jason felt exasperated and exhausted. He was a hundred and ten percent done with this bullshit, and he wanted home more than he wanted his leg back. He just wanted to go home.

"It's not safe," Tim said, pressing his phone to his ear.

"The manor is like, the safest place there is!" Jason's teeth cracked against each other as he gritted them.

"Untrue," Tim said. "It's your home. If someone wanted to kill you, they'd look for you there."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Here." Tim shoved the cellphone in his face, and Jason grabbed it, pressing it to his ear.

"Alfred?" Jason asked, his voice sounding pitiful and weak. He took a deep breath, and glared up at Tim again.  _God, I hate this kid_ , he thought bitterly. There was nothing true about it, though. There was a lengthy pause, and that made Jason uncomfortable. "Um, Alfie? Hello?"

" _Master Jason_?" The disbelief in Alfred's voice sent a chill through Jason's bones. He swallowed thickly, turning his face away. " _You... I was aware that you had been… discharged from the hospital, but_ —"

"I'm a hundred and ten percent awake," Jason said. "And pissed. And confused. What's going on? What happened to me?"

He heard Alfred take a deep breath.  _Alfred's upset_ , Jason thought, his heart pounding in his ears. His migraine was getting worse.  _Oh god, what did I do?_

" _Master Jason, there was an accident. I… I think perhaps it might be better if I told you face to face_."

"Yeah, if only Catlad would let me go," Jason hissed, glowering at the boy. He was looking somewhere else, his eyes sharp, alert.

"Shh," Tim said, holding up a finger. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Jason blinked.

"Shh!"

" _Sir, if you tell me where you_ —" Alfred was cut off by the sound of something whooshing through the air. Tim had obviously seen it, because he gave a sharp shout, ripping Jason from the wheelchair and slamming him against the ground. Jason pushed at him furiously, listening to fabric ripping apart, and the sound of something sharp hitting something wooden.

Tim kicked the ruined wheelchair hard, and Jason watched it go flying, its backrest nothing now but seven wisps of green cloth. The chair toppled over, its wheels still whirring, screeching in objection as they rolled at nothing. Jason found himself gripping Tim suddenly, his eyes widening as he was shoved beneath the kitchen table.

"Stay here," Tim whispered, grabbing a block of knives, sliding a cleaver from it and shoving its handle in Jason's palm.

"What the hell am I going to use this for?" Jason hissed, holding up the cleaver incredulously. "I'm not a butcher, I can't chop a person to death!"

But Tim was already gone. Jason listened, and his eyes widened as he heard the boy gasp, and the haunting sound of a body hitting the ground had Jason clutching the cleaver for dear life.


	11. The Erring Talon

**{the erring talon}**

_-Yet a voice tells us that weakness is a crime-_

He moved in silence, flitting like a wisp in the night. But it was not night. It was late morning, and Jason Todd was gone. That was not too troubling. The boy had been stolen, sure, and he was now awake when he had been comatose previously. Talon wasn't concerned. The boy was far too easy to track, and it seemed silly to think that anyone who had been the target of an assassination only a day previous was carelessly strolling through a park.

Talon hid. He did not want unnecessary attention, and it was easy to become invisible. The day was chilly, a brisk December morning that made him feel rather sickly. He hated the winter, and wished the Court would stop sending him on missions during this time of year. It hindered his abilities, and that was too bothersome to deal with.

The news that Jason Todd had almost been killed the day previous had been curious. The fact that he'd awoken, and was now out of the hospital, almost made it simpler by comparison. After all, if this hadn't happened, there probably would have been tighter security precautions. Talon was almost thankful to whoever had decided to go after the ward of Bruce Wayne. Almost.

Talon felt a little dead, and a little sick. The sky was a haze of grayish clouds, which parted somewhat for a break of sunshine. Talon relished in that, and he watched Jason Todd and his comrade disappear down an alley. Talon could have done away with them there. But he waited. And he listened to them, his mind fluttering and wandering, wondering vaguely what it might be like to have a friend.

It felt like needles and blasphemy just to think about it. So he carried on, following them to an apartment building. Getting inside was easy, and Talon was inside the apartment before they were. He hid away, waiting for the precise moment to strike. He wanted them to feel comfortable. He wanted the false security to set in, just so he could make it go fast, and then he could go back to sleep.

He made a mistake. While listening to the boys talk, he'd gotten too curious. He found a set of silver claws in a dish by the door, and when he picked one up, the keys in the dish clinked. He froze, and dropped the silver claw back into the dish. It clinked again, and he stiffened, mentally berating himself for being such a fool. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. He was too mercurial, too much of a child who wanted to know everything and understand things. He hated himself for being so weak, and he wished that he could escape himself somehow.

He entered the kitchen with seven knives in hand. He was still unseen, but not for long. The boy was suspicious, and he had heard him. Now they were locked in a battle of seen and unseen, their senses tingling as they both addressed each other to be where they were. Who would move faster? That was silly, it would be Talon. But the boy had good instincts, and he dove for Jason Todd before Talon had thought he would.

He flung the knives, and they tore through the thin fabric of the wheelchair's back, slicing it into strips of fluttering green cloth. He watched all seven burrow themselves into the wooden panels of the wall opposite, and Talon's eyes narrowed. He had not expected this to be difficult. He had not wanted it to be a fight. He just wanted to kill them quickly, nicely, just so they wouldn't have to suffer. He leapt atop a countertop, balancing on its edge as the nameless boy kicked the wheelchair at him, sending it flying and toppling over. Its wheels were spinning wildly, screeching as they spun and spun and spun.

Talon grasped another knife as he watched the boy hide Jason Todd beneath a table. Todd was shouting, but that was unimportant. Talon wished he could spare the boy, but it was no good. He was too dangerous to leave alone. He wasn't a little blonde girl who had dreamt up an injured Talon in her bathroom. He was an adult, or nearly so, and he had to go. I'm sorry, Dick thought, whipping his knife at the boy's shoulder. He had been expecting it, but as Talon had judged, he was not quite so quick. When he dodged, the knife sliced through his shoulder, and the boy gasped as Talon dove, the tips of his feet slamming into his chest. Talon flipped back, listening to him go down, and he grasped another knife, throwing himself atop the boy.

Before he could get the tip of his knife in his neck, however, the boy had wedged a knife through Talon's ribs. The boy was younger than Talon had thought, with big, almost... familiar blue eyes that were horrified and confused, but he forced the knife deeper, and Talon heard his own breath hitch. His knife was hovering over the boy's jugular, and he felt his teeth bare in irritation, gritting in pain.

The boy kicked Talon off of him, and dove for the table, flinging a few chairs away and reaching for Todd. "We have to go!" gasped the boy.

Talon stood up, pulling the kitchen knife from the wound. It might have stung a little, but Talon couldn't be sure. He was angry though. He brandished his own knife in his right hand, in the blood soaked kitchen knife in the other. He felt cold. Numb. In his soul, he was rotting, and something had frozen within him. He breathed, and he stepped forward, his eyes meeting the boy's. He stood slowly, his shoulder blooming red against the cotton of his shirt. His eyes had gone cold, no longer horror-struck.

"Who are you?" the boy asked, his voice clipped.

Talon lurched forward, and the boy dodged him, sliding to the side. Talon had seen that. His leg jutted out, and the boy stumbled, flipping onto his back and knocking the bloody knife from Talon's hand with a swift kick. The boy spun on his hands, landing in a crouch, and Talon blinked.

"Who are  _you_?" he found himself asking, his voice hoarse from disuse. He knew him. He knew he knew him. This boy was certainly no bystander. This complicated things.

The boy gave a grin that reminded him of a cat from a story he'd once known.  _Of shoes and ships and sailing wax_ … He drove the thoughts from his brain. "Come on," the boy cooed. "I asked you first."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Todd cried from beneath the table.

Talon flung his knife, and the boy dodged, grabbing the kitchen knife that Talon had dropped and diving at him. Talon was shocked by his stamina and agility, but that was likely because he was not used to his targets fighting back with such vigor. Or talent.  _He's good at this_ , Dick thought. He prayed the boy was old enough that the Court would deem him too developed to replace Dick as Talon.

The boy was not as flexible as Talon. That became apparent as they began to fight, knives slicing through air as they both whipped and ducked and stabbed at nothing. Their arms knocked against each other, and Talon kicked the boy back, his knife slashing against his cheek. He watched blood spill from the gash, sliding in a slight wave of red rivulets.

Talon struck him again, this time slicing open his shirt. The boy's chest now had a thin line running diagonally across it, straight and pristine as an artist's stroke. The boy kicked Talon back, flipping over him, and taking at stab at his back. Talon whacked him away, blinking as he felt the boy cling to him, his knife burrowing deep into his shoulder. His side wound hadn't even healed yet. This wasn't going well.

He punched the boy hard, his fist connecting with his jaw and sending him flying into a wall. Talon's nostrils flared as he tore the kitchen knife out of him yet again, and zipped forward, grabbing the boy by the neck and suspending him in midair. He slammed him against the wall again, watching blood run down his cheek like streaks of red tears. The boy winced, giving a soft choking noise. And he glared at Talon with such conviction, Dick faltered when he pressed the bloody blade to his bare chest.

That falter was all Todd had needed to crawl out from beneath the table and whack his leg with a cleaver. The shock of that forced Talon to drop the boy.  _Objective_ , Talon reminded himself. But Talon was losing a lot of blood, and he wasn't healing fast enough.  _Life_ , reminded Dick. He looked down at Todd, who had ripped out the cleaver, and moved to hit him again. Talon's knees were shaking as his foot slammed into Todd's shoulder, forcing the cleaver to fall.

Talon pulled out another knife. The bloody kitchen knife was still in hand, and pointed at the boy's neck. The other was pointed at Todd.

"I'm sorry," Dick said, aiming at the boy.

Something crashed through the window and barreled into him, sending him flying into the connecting living room, and slamming into the wall. He felt dizzy, shocked, and the pain was rushing into him. He felt cold, and he wasn't healing. Whatever had hit him weighed a ton, and Talon blinked rapidly as he slumped down, his head resting in the dent in the wall behind him.

He was punched, and he felt his mask crack. The fist was more like a brink, and Talon felt blood, warm and hot and sticky, running from his nostrils into his mouth. He was punched again, and his head snapped back. The third the first came, Talon had seen it coming, and he ducked, slamming himself into the bold red  _S_  shield the boy who had attacked him bore.  _Not Superman_ , Dick thought, feeling stupid.  _Superboy_. Superboy stumbled back in shock, and Talon punched him, his fist cracking against the boy's jaw. He slipped away before Superboy could get a grab on him, and he flipped up and over the targets he knew he had lost.

He flung himself out the window, feeling himself whirling downwards, the frigid winter air hitting him harder than any wound afflicting him. He blinked rapidly as he landed in a crumpled, broken heap on the sidewalk. For a short, weakened moment, he was dead on impact.

He sprung to his feet, his body so battered that he buckled, imbalanced and shaking. The wind was biting at him, licking his wounds like salt. He looked upward for only a second, and he could see the boy staring down at him. He bolted after that, flinging himself into traffic and listening to cars screech and smash. His heart was pounding, and his bones all felt broken. His wounds were too much, and it was too cold, and he would die again soon if he didn't hurry and fine shelter.

If he thought that this death would be final, perhaps he would have let himself die. But he knew better. He would come back, and it would only be more painful. Slow and agonizing, wounds stitching back together at a thread of skin a minute. It all hurt, and he was running blindly, fleeing from his failure and praying that the Court didn't find out about his folly. There was small, wet flakes dripping from the sky and dissolving before they hit the ground. Talon felt ready to puke.

He found a building in an alleyway with a cracked window. He smashed it, and slipped inside, collapsing in a heap over shattered glass and powdered snow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Gr8 job, Dick, you're a shitty assassin too. They're all shitty assassins. Everyone is a shitty assassin, that should be the summary of this dumb fic.
> 
> Cred to Victor Hugo. He was most likely not a shitty assassin.


	12. The Cunning Kitten

**{the cunning kitten}**

_-He who kills is clever, he who wounds awkward-_

"Thanks," Tim said to Superboy, peering down at the sidewalk below. For a split second, when the assassin hadn't gotten up, Tim had thought he might've been dead. But no. Nothing could be so simple. The assassin jumped to his feet, and looked up. Their eyes met, masked or no, and Tim felt a chill run down his spine.  _What are you?_

"No problem," Superboy said, moving his jaw with a wince. "Dang, that guy packed a punch."

"Jason, you okay?" Tim asked, turning around. Jason was lying on his stomach on the floor amongst strewn chairs, bloodstains, and bright red knives. His chin was resting on folded arms as he stared at them dully.

"Fucking peachy," Jason said phlegmatically.

"Good." Tim walked back into the kitchen, avoiding the blood puddles as he went, and he picked up his cellphone. Alfred had hung up, probably to call the police. Or track the call. Or both. He pressed the number one, Selina on speed dial, and he searched the drawers of the counter top for a plastic baggie.

Selina picked up after two rings. " _Hey, kitten_ ," she said. " _I'm on my way home. Do you have something you want to tell me_?"

"Uh." Tim looked around the ruined apartment, and he sighed. "Don't come home. Trust me, it'll be better if you don't. Kind of just got attacked by an assassin."

" _Excuse me_?" Selina sounded relatively calm about it, which wasn't surprising. " _Who was it_?"

"I don't know." Tim went back to the dining room, picking up the cleaver and dropping it into the plastic baggie. He bagged the kitchen knife too, and began collecting the other knives. "He was after Jason."

" _So Jason is with you_ ," Selina said. " _Good to know, considering you're all over the news. So you beat the assassin off, then? That's my boy_."

"It wasn't easy," Tim admitted. "I almost didn't, to be honest. Superboy kind of saved our butts, big time."

"You're welcome," Superboy said, looking around the apartment with vague interest. "Also… sorry. For being an ass to you before."

"It was understandable." Tim went back into the kitchen to retrieve a larger plastic bag to put the smaller ones in. "By the way, do you have like, a car or something?"

"Uh," Superboy said, his thick eyebrows rising. "Dude, I can fly. Why would I have a car?"

Tim sighed. "Typical," he murmured, taking his bag full of knives and shaking his head. "Selina, I've gotta go, but uh… yeah, we're fine, and if you do come home, I swear most of the blood isn't mine."

" _Most_." Selina's voice had gone very low and very dangerous. " _Tim_ —"

"I'm fine, I promise," he said. "Love you."

" _I love you too_ ," she said, her voice still dark. " _But so help me, if you're lying, I'm going to find that assassin and tear his throat out_."

Tim smiled, and he shook his head. "If I wasn't fine, I wouldn't have called, and you know it. Just stay away from here for tonight. I'll call you later." He hung up, pocketing the phone and stepping over Jason.

"This is torture," Jason said, rolling onto his side to glare at Tim. "Someone put me in a chair!"

Superboy picked Jason up, placing him carefully on a chair. "You good?" Superboy asked, backing off slowly.

"I'm great," Jason replied, folding his arms across his chest, scowling ahead of him. "Except for the part where I hate everything, and want to go home."

"I can take you—" Superboy offered.

"No." Tim spun around to face them. He'd been deep in thought before, trying to sort out what they were going to do. "Take him to Oracle. We need him somewhere secure, and the clocktower is about as secure as we can get unless we get into the Batcave."

"Which is unlikely." Superboy looked down at Jason, and he gave him a thumbs up. "You cool with that?"

"Whatever."

Tim set down his bag, stripping off his torn shirt. "You guys better go," he told them. Jason looked at him as if he was about to spring up and try to strangle him. Tim decided to ignore it. "We don't know if that guy will come back, and I personally don't want to stick around and find out."

"I can carry both of you," Superboy said, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes were narrowed, and he was studying Tim with varying degrees of distrust.

"I have to check something out." Tim retrieved one of the knives he had not collected from the paneling, and he stared at it, running his thumb across the blade. "Red said the assassin from the hospital was tiny."

"That guy wasn't too big," Superboy said slowly.

"Tiny," Tim said, testing the point of the knife— not a kunai, a knife— with his thumb. He immediately jerked his finger back, wincing. The tip was sharper, much sharper. Tim pressed his thumb to his mouth, licking away the bead of blood that had appeared. "She said the assassin from the hospital looked like a child, but she couldn't tell because of how covered up he— or she— was. Layers of clothes." Tim pointed at the window with the tip of the knife. "That guy? One layer aside from some armor, and it hugs his body better than  _my_  suit does. And that's saying a lot."

"Sorry we weren't checking out how defined the fucker's ass was," Jason said in a blunt voice. "But thanks for pointing it out, now that I think about it, yeah, looked pretty damn firm."

Superboy choked on a laugh, and Tim rolled his eyes. "Jay, not the time." Tim pressed his lips together, his mind going wild. "There's two assassins after you."

Jason looked exhausted, and he shook his head, glaring at a wall. "I wish I could say I care," Jason said. His voice was so dead, Tim almost wanted to slap him. "But I don't."

"You should," Tim snapped, stabbing the knife into the table. That startled Superboy, but not Jason. "This is your life we're risking ours for! You only just woke up, and you're just going to pretend like none of this matters?"

"I just want to go home," Jason said, for perhaps the umpteenth time. "I don't care who wants me dead. This isn't anything new, cat boy."

"But now is different because you don't have the big bad bat to protect you," Tim said quietly. "You have to be careful. Gotham is crazy enough right now without Batman around, and adding the fact that you might have some kind of prize on your head? Think, Jay!"

"I'm thinking!" Jason slammed his hand on the table, and the resounding  _smack_ startled even Tim. "I'm thinking that I should have fucking stayed asleep! I don't understand what's happening, and you're not explaining, and I'm thinking that if I'm so much goddamn trouble, why don't you guys just let me die?"

"Stop!" Superboy shouted, slamming his own fist onto the table. They all jumped when a huge chunk of wood splintered off. Jason looked down at his hands, or perhaps his missing leg, and his entire body went lax. He said nothing more, and Tim took a deep breath, feeling stupid and guilty. He shouldn't have yelled at him. That had been wrong. "Stop fighting," Superboy said in a softer voice. "I'll take Jason to Oracle. You do what you've gotta do, cat boy."

"Tim," he corrected, folding his arms across his chest. It was then he remembered that he was bleeding rather profusely, and he sighed, turning away. "I'll meet you guys at the clocktower in an hour. Take the knives, Red'll want the blood samples."

"Sure," Superboy said, picking Jason up. Jason looked unhappy, but said nothing to object. Jason held onto the bag as they both turned away. Something occurred to Tim then, and he stared at Superboy, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Hey," he called. Superboy looked back expectantly. "How'd you know to save us?"

The boy gave a lopsided grin, and he laughed. "Oracle got a call. I was the closest." Superboy shrugged, and took off, flying from the window with Jason in his arms.

 _Goddamn heroes_ , Tim thought in disbelief, clambering over broken furniture to get to his room. He grabbed a sweatshirt from his drawer, and went to the bathroom to clean his cuts and bandage them. He winced a little as he did so. The worst one was his shoulder wound, which was deep enough that it might require stitches. He could only shove a few extra bandages in his pockets and pray it didn't come to that.

He grabbed his coat and his keys, stuffing his suit into a backpack just in case. He walked back the way he had come from the hospital, pulling up his hood to spare his ears from the whipping winter winds. It was a very blustery day, and there was a dance of tiny, barely formed snowflakes that were only just beginning to take on some sort of shape. Tim was reminded that Christmas was soon, and he smiled a little.  _Bruce Wayne's going to have a good Christmas_ , he thought idly _. If we can keep Jason alive that long_.

He made it to the hospital, and he wondered what the hell he was doing.  _I made myself public enemy number one in the place_   _I actually needed to go_ , he thought.  _Only I could do that_. He sighed, and noticed the distinct lack of police cars. He probably had Barbara to thank for that. He probably had Barbara to thank for a lot of things, including his life.

Tim had been looking up at the window that had shattered the previous day, and he squinted around him. They had moved Jason into a different room to spare him from the cold, but now that he was looking, there was something peculiar about the wall. There were three long gouges running down the face of the building, starting about halfway from the broken window, and stopping a few feet above Tim's head. He looked around, checking for onlookers, and then took a few steps back. He jumped, his feet gliding upward as he climbed carefully, feeling gravity begin to tug at him. He managed to grab hold of whatever was sticking out of the lacerations. He yanked it out of the wall, and dropped to the ground, twirling it over in his hands.

A kunai. Completely identical in every way to the one that been used against Barbara. Tim pulled out the knife the assassin in his apartment had used to compare them. The kunai was smaller and skinnier, newer by far. Its metal was nicked, but not as many times as the knife. Its shaft was as thin as a pencil, and when Tim tried to close his hand around it, it didn't fit.  _Small hands_ , he noted.  _Small assassin_. The knife was ornate.  _Old_. It was sturdy, and sharper than the kunai, but it looked more like an antique than a weapon. And there was also the raised, gold enameled owl inlaid on the flat of the blade to account for.

"You a knife expert, or something?" a sweet, soft voice asked. Tim jumped, nearly dropping the kunai and knife. There was a girl leaning in front of him, her face slim and smooth, with a round button nose, smiling lips, and large eyes. She was shorter than him, but not by much, and she stepped back a bit, still smiling. She wore a thick purple beanie, and her short blonde hair curled across her forehead, and her cheeks, and around her ears, bouncing at her chin. She was wearing a violet coat that reached to her knees and a periwinkle scarf. He could see leggings tucked into flat, durable looking brown boots.

"Um," Tim said, glancing at the weapons in his hands. "Not exactly, no."

"Oh." She cocked her head, and gave a little laugh that wisped against the frigid air, foggy and white. "Well, what exactly are you doing, then?"

"Just…" Tim tucked the weapons into his bag, and he gave a one-shouldered shrug. "You know, investigating. Some weird stuff's been going on here."

"True," said the girl, glancing up at the gouges on the wall. "Wonder what could do that."

"Yeah," Tim sighed. "I wonder."

"Well!" The girl's big blue eyes got bigger as she jerked her hand out. "I'm Steph."

 _Steph_. Tim stared at her, his eyes flickering over her face, helplessly trying to recognize something from her. But truth be told, he had no idea what the girl he had lost once had looked like.  _They sound alike, though_. Maybe Tim just wanted them to sound alike.

"Steph," Tim repeated, feeling wary. He couldn't stop staring at her face, and his heart hammered in his chest as he tried to rationalize this.  _Steph is a common name_ , he reminded himself.  _It's not her, it can't be_. But he wanted it to be. He stared at her for so long, she seemed to get startled.

"Right," she said, her hand dropping to her side. Her pale brows rose, disappearing behind her curly bangs. "Short for Stephanie. I'm new in town, actually."

"Oh?" Tim's eyes narrowed at her, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her.  _Is it Spoiler, or am I crazy?_  For all he knew Spoiler was dead. "What brings you to Gotham?"

She gave a long sigh, and shook her head. "My brother," she said contritely. "I'm actually looking for him. The nanny wasn't exactly being watchful, and he got away from her."

 _It's not that hard_ , he found himself thinking.  _Nannies are airheads_. He didn't say it though. Instead, he said, "Oh. I'm sorry."

She nodded, pursing her lips as she glanced around. "I mean, he's not  _stupid_ ," she said, her breath a puff of white air as she spoke. "At least, I didn't think he was. I'm really just like, shit, what if I don't find him before nightfall? Then I'd have to get the police involved."

"I'm sorry," Tim repeated earnestly. "I wish I could help, but I need to get going."

"Oh?" Her eyes drooped a little sadly. "Okay. Sorry I bothered you about it, I'm just really worried."

"Maybe… I mean, what does he look like?" He knew what it was like to be a child alone in Gotham. It was truly terrifying, and he wouldn't want to inflict that upon anyone.

Steph beamed at him, and he thought that was strange. "He's little," she said, gesturing with her hand. "Really pale, and his hair is a lot lighter than mine. Like, platinum blond."

"I'll look out for him," Tim said.

"Thanks," Steph said, pecking him on the cheek. Tim blinked, and he grabbed her arm as she spun away, squeezing her wrist with just enough pressure to make her gasp. The kunai and knife she'd swiped from his backpack clattered to the sidewalk.

"Spoiler," Tim hissed, yanking her closer.

She stared up at him in shock for a moment, and then her parted lips melted into a smirk. "Aw," she said. "You remember me. I'm actually really flattered."

"We had a date," Tim reminded, grabbing her other wrist as he felt it sliding down his chest, into his coat pocket. "I was looking forward to it."

"Really?" She cocked her head, leaning up and away from his face, her nose bumping against his. "You're so sweet, kitty."

"I also thought you were dead," Tim said, watching her every move with undivided attention. He did smile though, following her movements and swaying back and forth, a game of teasing and dragging out words and breaths. Her mist blew into his face, and his into hers, and it was an intimate sort battle of trickery between strangers. "I was worried."

"You really are sweet." Her eyes widened at that, and she pressed her palms against his chest. "We should totally do that date thing. Paris, right?"

"Coffee," Tim said, smirking as he felt her press her lips against his. He knew what she was doing. He'd seen Selina do it half a hundred times. But he let her, because he couldn't strike her first. Not in public. He blinked at her face, surprised as she deepened the kiss, yanking him down by the lapels of his jacket, and he loosened his grip on her wrists, waiting. But she seemed to really want to drag it out. That puzzled him. Sure, he understood that he was trying to distract him, and it was almost working. Her lips were very soft and steadily working at his, moving delicately to try and pry them open.

 _What are you doing, Spoiler?_  He let her pull at him, and he it surprised him when she spun him around, pushing his back against the wall of the hospital. She kissed him hard, as if she was desperately trying to unlock some kind of secret he held, some word on his tongue that she wanted so bad, she couldn't stop attacking his lips. Her body was very warm against his, and though Tim had kissed others since that horrible night with Jason, he found himself thinking back to it. He had been too young then to understand how truly useful his body could be, and even now he was always reluctant to use Selina's methods. He didn't really know if it was him saying and doing these things, or if it was some monster inside him that itched to get out.

"You're shy," she breathed, breaking away from him. She sounded surprised, as if she hadn't expected him to be so reserved. He was eying the weapons still lying on the sidewalk, and he had to wonder what she was doing. She had him. She could kick his ass if she wanted. But she was prolonging this.  _Maybe she really does like me_ , he thought, feeling a slight rush of warmth. "Like, really shy. Come on, open up."

He leaned down, meeting her lips and feeling her smile. It was odd, feeling this complete stranger breathing against him, tugging him closer and closer, as if she just wanted warmth and breath and smiles. Perhaps that was what she wanted after all. She got her tongue between his lips, and it tickled against the roof of his mouth. He tucked a blonde curl behind her ear, and he felt her lips tug upward, her teeth dragging against his mouth tentatively.

He felt something wet against his cheek, and they broke apart. He glanced upward, blinking as a fluffy flake clung to his eyelashes. "Snow," he said quietly. He looked down, and he saw her eyes glittering with a strange sort of mischief. He jolted as she stepped back, her leg winding up and smacking into his jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, look, TimSteph. Yay for sloppy makeouts. They're always so fun, aren't they? By the way, I was bullshitting Kon's characterization. I know Young Justice's Kon, but not his comic personality. Obviously I wasn't using his YJ personality bc there's enough angsting to go around thank you.
> 
> Mad props to Victor Hugo for having beautiful quotes when he probably didn't need them, but who the fuck cares, it's Victor Hugo.


	13. The Assenting Spoiler

**{the assenting spoiler}**

_-A snare lurked in every possibility-_

The thing that sucked? Steph had been enjoying herself. Like, way too much, and she was annoyed at herself for cutting the entire thing short. She couldn't remember the last time she'd kissed a guy like that, or even really craved a boy anyway. And god, was she craving that stupid cat. He'd tasted like blood, which she found a little odd, but it was a familiar taste. He was so soft too, she'd been surprised by his touches. The boy was as gentile as he was sweet. And boy, was he sweet.

 _Oh shit_ , she thought as she bolted down an alleyway, the stolen knives in hand.  _I really like him. That is just my luck, wow_. She ran, trying to push thoughts of him out of her head and focus on getting back to her safe house— or rather, her old apartment, which was barren as hell nowadays. It made her sad and nostalgic. She really despised Deathstroke, and she knew there had to be a way out, but she was too terrified to try and find one. So instead, she did as she was bid. And if that meant stealing from an adorable boy that she had been intensely crushing on for years? Well, she'd had worse gigs.

Also, he was chasing after her. She liked that.

She was ghost hunting. It was proving fruitless, and she was growing swiftly irritated, because the boy had disappeared. He hadn't made a move since apparently trying to kill Jason Todd in the hospital. Now that she saw Catlad's face clearly, she knew that  _he_  was the one who had kidnapped Todd earlier in the day. Which had been why she'd approached him in the first place. Aside from her sad attraction to him, he could have the key to finding the Ghost.

Ra's al Ghul had not specified the boy's name. He merely called him the Ghost, which made things tricky. If the kid was using an alias, she couldn't know, because Ra's had left out key details. Stephanie knew the boy was ten, and she knew what he looked like for the most part, but god, she wished he'd told her a bit of his background. Who was he, anyway? And why the hell was he so important?

Anyway, so she'd stolen the weapons the Ghost had used. Big deal. She probably needed them more anyway.  _We should be working together_ , she thought, twisting around a corner. She didn't dare look back to see if Catlad— Tim Drake, according to the news— was still following her. No, she'd just keep running, and hope that maybe somehow she'd lost him.

How silly of her.

He'd somehow snuck onto a fire escape above her. And so when he jumped down in front of her, she immediately found herself in attack mode. She punched him in the stomach, reeling back and ducking as he moved, his leg darting out. She moved fast, feeling adrenaline pumping in her veins as she pushed off him, spinning around to run the opposite way. She hadn't given him enough credit. Tim Drake was  _fast_. He'd caught her not because he was stronger, which she knew he wasn't, but because she'd underestimated him. Deathstroke would have smacked her for that.

He tackled her, slamming his knee between her shoulder blades, and she gasped, the knives clattering away from her. She winced as her cheek was forced against the dark, scummy alley street, and she glared up at him in irritation. "You know," she hissed, squirming as she felt him bind her wrists. "This is really not how I expected our first date to go. Well, okay, maybe I hoped it would go a little like this, but—"

He flipped her over, pinning her shoulders to the ground. She blinked at the close proximity, and she smiled. She liked this better. "Why did you steal those?" he asked her, ignoring how she leaned her head up to try and get a kiss in.  _This sucks_ , she thought glumly.

"I needed them?" Stephanie shrugged, but he had too much pressure on her shoulders. "I'm on a job, okay?"

"What job?" Tim's eyes were narrowed, but his voice was still soft. He didn't want to hurt her, and it was too plain.

"Can't say," she said, smiling up at him wanly.

"Come on," he whispered, his eyes softening. She watched him with a dull gaze, and she sighed, shaking her head. "Please, Spoiler?"

"Aw," she said, smirking a bit. "Stop being cute. I can't tell you, kitty, okay? Totes confidential. Like, if I spill, I'll be executed sort of confidential." She smiled big at him, watching his face transform in horror. "Geddit now?"

"Who are you working for?" Tim asked, leaning backwards. She sighed, and glared away from him.

"Not the good guys," she said. "I'm not even a thief anymore. I've gone lower than that."

"Spoiler—" Tim sucked in a breath through his teeth, and he shook his head. " _Steph_. You can talk to me, okay? How much trouble are you in?"

"None right now," she said. She closed her eyes, and she relished in the thought of how nice it was to just have someone there who genuinely seemed to care. "But if I fail, I'm dead. Simple."

"Not so simple." Tim crawled off her, still gripping her shoulders as she sat up. "Let me help you."

"If this is because of the date thing…" Stephanie stared at him, and she shook her head. "You know you're not actually obligated to follow through? Like, it's a nice thought, but I don't think it's going to happen."

"Why not?" Tim seemed to be urging something he didn't quite understand, and Stephanie wanted it more than anything. "I'll help you, and then you can help me, and then we can go on that date. How does that sound?"

"Amazing," she admitted, "but… I don't know. Do you really want to help me?"

"We seem to be after the same thing." Tim let go of her shoulders and leaned over, scooping up the knives. He held them up, and for the first time Stephanie noticed they were different. She never did have an eye for that sort of detail. Two things had frustrated Deathstroke immensely while training her: her reluctance to kill, and her complete lack of knowledge on weapons. "I think you can help me. I'm looking for the person who tried to kill Jason Todd at the hospital yesterday… and I'm guessing so are you."

"Which one did he use?" she asked, looking between them. One was fancier than the other. If she had to guess, she'd go with that one. It just had a nice flare.

"The kunai." Tim held up the plainer one, and she frowned. "The knife is from a completely different assassin who went after Jason about an hour ago."

"Is that what that's from?" she asked, jerking her chin at his cheek. She'd noticed the thin red line on his cheek, but she'd thought better than to comment.

"Yeah." Tim was still holding up the kunai, and he was watching her steadily. "That "little brother" you were talking about. Was he the assassin?"

Stephanie sighed, and averted her gaze. And then, reluctantly, she nodded. "I don't know that much about him, before you ask," she said. "The truth is, I know so little about him, my hopes of catching him are like, sub-zero at the moment. I know he's called the Ghost."

"Why?"

Stephanie shrugged. "He's quiet?" she offered. The alleyway smelled like stale beer and piss, and she hated it. But this was as private as things were going to get. "Uh… his hair is white. I know that. But, honestly, I've never seen the kid before in my life. Not even a picture."

"Then how are you supposed to find him?" Tim looked shocked, and she didn't blame him. The mission felt like a fluke to her too. "Why did you even take this assignment, Spoiler? This sounds like suicide."

"I didn't have a choice, okay?" She glared at her knees, pulling them up to her chest. Her arms were still tied behind her back. "I got caught up in a bad crowd. Like, think of the worst. I'm probably there."

"I doubt that," he whispered. He sounded so sincere, it hurt to think about it. To him, she was just a cute thief that had forked over a nice prize once. He didn't know how horrible she could be. She liked it that way. "You don't seem so bad."

"I kicked you in the mouth," Steph reminded, smiling at him. He smiled back, and shrugged.

"Better friends of mine have done worse." He tilted his head, and she watched him put the knives into his bag. "So, do we have a deal?"

"You know that means turning the kid over to me when you catch him," Stephanie said slowly.

"When  _we_  catch him," Tim corrected. "And we'll cross that bridge later. For right now—"

"Heeey, kitty kitty kitty!" chirped a sharp, rapid voice. Steph's head snapped behind her, and she saw a blur of yellow and red as a moving form slid to a stop before them. A tiny brunette boy in bright yellow spandex stood there, grinning so big, she found herself grinning too. Even though not too long ago, she'd been trying to beat that smile away. "Tying up girls in allies? Naughty boy!"

"Just a precaution, Kid Flash," Tim sighed. "Also, keep your voice down. This isn't Central, and you don't want unnecessary attention."

"Right," Kid Flash said in a loud whisper. "Sorry, Catlad. So, the mighty Oracle is beckoning us back to base, and I am personally wiped. I could do for a few chilidogs, if you feel me."

"Wasn't on her grocery list," Tim said, rolling his eyes. "But I'm sure you'll manage."

"But," Kid Flash whined, his eyes going wide. " _Chilidogs_!"

"Shouldn't you be with your dad?" Tim asked, his shoulders hunching in slight irritation.

Kid Flash looked shocked for a moment, startled into silence. "Wally's not my dad," the boy said, his voice very soft, and almost sad.

"Well," Tim said with a shrug. "Selina's not my mom. But that doesn't make her any less special to me."

"But…" The boy looked so startled, Stephanie wanted to hug him. She couldn't though, because she was tied up. "I dunno, man, that's just too weird. Wally as a dad? He's like, barely old enough to drink! Okay, that's an exaggeration on my part, oops, but still! That's weird to think about. I mean—"

"Keep it down," Tim said, reaching for Steph's neck. She gave him an inquisitive glance as he unwound the periwinkle scarf from her neck. "Anyway, you never answered my question. Where's the Flash?"

"The  _Flash_  is here?" Stephanie gaped. "Shouldn't he be… like, with the Justice League? Or something?"

"Titans gig," Kid Flash said, grinning. "Besides, the other Flash is with the League."

"There's two Flashes?" That made her head spin a little. "Uh, what? Since  _when_?"

Kid Flash gave a lazy shrug. "I dunno." He looked to Tim, and he pursed his lips. "Well, the last time I checked with him, the Wallman was over at the Harbor. Arsenal made an appearance, I think. Wow, sorry, you know who these people are, right? Totally forgetting you're not part of the team."

That seemed to make Tim happy. He smiled, and gave a laugh. "No, it's okay," Tim said, shaking his head. "I'm glad you feel that way. It's better than all of you hating me because of my career choice."

"Just convert," Kid Flash urged in his loud, whispery voice. "Come on. The world could stand one less thief."

"I do heroics," Tim said. "Just not all the time. I have to have balance in my life, okay? I'm still a greedy piece of shit."

"Nah." Kid Flash shook his head fast, his brown hair going into a mop of windswept strands. "You don't do it for the money."

"No?"

"He doesn't?" Steph asked, her eyebrows rising. This was all very interesting, but she was being left out of the conversation, which sucked.

"Nope." Kid Flash grinned broadly. "You steal because it makes you feel good. Like you belong to something."

"Wow." Tim stared at the boy, and he blinked rapidly. "Wow, I don't even know how to respond to that."

"Ooh, ooh." Stephanie bounced in place. "You could punch him!"

"No, I'm not upset." Tim looked puzzled, and Stephanie stared at him and wondered if Kid Flash was right.  _I wish I had that motivation_ , she thought. The truth was, she was greedy and selfish. But who cared? "Anyway, I promised I would be back like, half an hour ago. So…"

Stephanie was smiling broadly as Tim draped her scarf across her eyes, effectively blinding her. He tied it tight, and she gave a loud, dreamy sigh. "Oh, I love this game," she said, feeling herself being picked up. "Well, I know that's you, kitty. Kid over there would never be so handsy."

"Sorry," Tim said, adjusting his grip so he was holding her bridal style. "Better?"

"No. I liked the other way."

"Too bad."

"This is really cute," Kid Flash said. "Who are you again?"

"Don't recognize me?" Steph taunted. "I only tried to kill you like… a week ago, Flash boy."

"Kid Flash!" he corrected with a snap. "And… oh man! Spoiler? For real! Hey, dude, you shouldn't be dragging her around! She's Deathstroke's kid!"

"I've met his kid," Steph said with a sigh. "She's actually really cool, I wish he didn't make us beat the shit out of each other."

"Dude!"

"Deathstroke?" Tim sounded confused. "That's what you meant? Steph, we can get you away from him."

"No you can't," Stephanie sighed.

"If you're scared of him—"

"It's not Deathstroke I'm scared of," Stephanie said, her voice barely over a whisper. She clutched at Tim's coat, and she was once again filled with thoughts about what might happen to her if she returned without the Ghost in hand.


	14. The Weary Ghost

**{the weary ghost}**

_-There is nothing more fearful than being hurried forward blindfolded-_

He had wandered the city for hours looking for shelter. At some point his toes had gone numb, and then the tips of his fingers. The wind was toying with his cloak and thawd, whipping them around him like a wisp of black and gray. He was losing his senses, and he felt as though he'd gone utterly blind in the darkness. He'd been attacked once or twice, but he'd gotten rid of the assailants quickly enough. He was furious and shuddering, and he stumbled a little, slipping on ice patches and nearly toppling over.

Damian had never been out in the cold before. It was shock and knives, stabbing into him all at once, but slow enough for it to sting and slap. Truthfully, he was terrified, but he could not admit it to himself. He was struggling with his mortality, and he shook and wandered, weakened and confused. The temperature seemed to be dropping at an excessive rate, and he couldn't function with sharp, cold needles sticking into him with every step. He was sweating, but he was freezing. He didn't understand this, and he couldn't stop to ponder. He had to keep moving, and so he did.

His heart was pounding in his head, and he tugged his hood over his face, frightened at how blind he was. He's been in total darkness before, but not when his life was in such blatant peril. No, this was awful, and it was only growing worse. The more he stumbled into the night, the less he sensed. He couldn't feel what was in front of him, and he could not see, and he tumbled and tripped, falling onto his knees and breathing heavily against his woolen scarf.

 _I'm a failure_ , he thought, closing his eyes. He heard nothing but the haunting howl of the wind, and it whispered in his ear. He had never been stuck alone before, not in the cold, not in the darkness of a city, and certainly not blinded and numb. So yes, he was scared. He was growing terrified, because he knew he was growing weaker and weaker, and that would lead to his demise, surely.

He'd been huddled on the ground with his knees to his chest, his back pressed against the wall, and his eyes closed. He was trying to focus. He needed to get his senses back if he planned on surviving the night. After wedging himself between a box and a bin of garbage, Damian buried his face in his scarf. Even with the heavy woolen thing, his cheeks felt numb.

Something touched his hand, and he nearly grabbed a kunai and stabbed it. But it was very gentle. It did not feel human, and he found he trusted that more. His numb hands were being prodded at with something soft, and he blinked into the darkness. He heard snuffling, and he carefully pulled off a glove from his stiff, unyielding fingers. He reached, and he felt something soft in front of him. It moved, and he could hear breathing, sniffing, and he felt something wet and cold brush against his flesh. Damian jerked back, hand half flying to a knife hidden in his sleeve.

The beast gave a noise. It sounded like a choking growl, a guttural shout. Damian didn't know what that meant, but it nuzzled at his bare hand, and he felt something warm and wet glide across his freezing fingers. And it tickled. He gave a soft giggle, and then choked it down. No, this wasn't right. He needed to focus.

The beast made a louder noise, like a whine, and Damian felt a tugging at his scarf. He blinked through the darkness, but he still could not see a thing. "Hello?" he offered, his hand still outstretched. He ran it blindly through the beast's short, fine hair, and he wondered what monster he had found.

It made a guttural noise, and tugged at his scarf. "You want me to come with you?" Damian asked weakly. He didn't know how he felt about it. The beast could devour him, for all he knew.

It tugged at his scarf, and the nipping night air sliced against Damian's face as it fell. That convinced him. "Okay," Damian said, pressing his hand to the beast as he stood up. "But you'll have to lead me."

He couldn't help but stumble a bit as he pocketed his glove, pressing his palm against the bulky back of the beast. He walked slowly, carefully, and the beast walked along side him, the heavy padding of paws the only suggestion of movement. They moved with an agonizing slowness, but Damian was unsure of his footing, and it was too cold to rely on his instincts, which had gone fuzzy.

"Where are we going?" Damian asked the beast, running the tips of his fingers against the soft fur. It was surreal, feeling the muscles of its back work as he moved. He knew better than to expect an answer, but Damian had to calm his nerves. Fear was not for an al Ghul.

The chill of winter was doing a number on him. He was lost in numbed senses, and he felt so vulnerable that his joints were aching. There were monsters in the dark, monsters worse than him. He could feel them twitching, lurching. He could hear himself breathing, hear the wind howling, and hear the monsters hissing. There was darkness in every corner, and Damian was trapped in a shade. Everything was ice and wind and whispers in the dark.

The beast stopped, and Damian listened to the soft sound of something grinding against wood. Claws. Scratching lightly, perhaps, against a wall, or… or a door. Yes, that was it. The beast was pawing at a door. Damian blinked, squinting into the darkness, but only darkness glared back. Damian took a deep breath, and he felt a whoosh of air, and heard the creaking of rusty hinges.

"Dog," a soft, high pitched voice sighed. "What did we tell you about bringing home strays?"

The beast made its guttural noise, this one louder than the rest. Damian jumped, stumbled back a little. There was light somewhere in the darkness, and that made him blink rapidly. There was a silhouette, and it was humanoid, but Damian was unsure. He felt the beast nuzzle at his hand, and Damian ran his palm against its head, feeling its soft, slim, pointed ears.

"Dog," Damian repeated, squinting. He still couldn't see the beast, but he supposed it made sense. He'd never seen a dog before, though, so he couldn't be certain.

"Yeah," said the high voice. Damian shivered a little, and he felt the dog slip from his fingers, its paws scraping against concrete. "Well, we don't actually have a name for him, 'cause he's really not ours. I think he belongs to someone, though. He's got a collar."

"Oh." Damian stood rigidly, squinting through his tinted glasses. He couldn't see the stranger's face.

"Well, come in, then," said the voice, feet shuffling. Damian stood stock still, and he took a tentatively step. His foot caught at a sharp stoop upward, and his arms flew out to grasp something, or break his fall. He felt fingers grasp him around the wrists, and steady him. "Whoa! Are you okay? Are you sick or something?"

Damian shook his head, not trusting his voice. He lifted his foot, letting it hover in the air for a few moments before it found solid ground. He felt ridiculous, and more ashamed than he'd ever been in his entire life. His cheeks were burning in mortification. And he felt the hands holding his arms carefully guide him through a doorway, steadying him with a gentle touch. Damian wanted to kick and scream and run away, but he had nowhere to go.

"Can… can you see?" asked the boy. Damian saw now that it was a boy, but his features were very fuzzy. There was a makeshift fire pit in the center of the room, and the smell of the smoke made him feel sick and itchy. There were also lanterns sitting in various corners of the barren room, giving it a dim sort of glow. His eyes were adjusting, thankfully.

"Yes," Damian said, though it felt like a lie. The boy's grip tightened, and Damian tore his arms away. "I am  _not_  blind."

"Oh," the boy said, sounding strange. Apologetic. Damian wished to smack him. "Sorry, it's just… you were having trouble, you know? Sorry, man."

Damian felt something cold and wet snuffle at his hand, and he sighed, running his fingers across the shiny black coat of the dog that had found him. "I am not blind," Damian repeated, huffing a little. "My eyesight is simply… poor."

"Then why are you wearing those lame sunglasses?" a bristly, feminine voice asked. Damian looked around sharply, and spotted two girls sitting on a beaten, torn up yellow couch by the fire. "It's like, one in the morning."

Damian stiffened, and he glowered at her. She could not see it though, unfortunately. "My eyes are… sensitive. Where am I?" He looked around sharply. He stuck closer to the dog, feeling uncomfortable and wary. He had no wish to kill these…  _children_ , but he knew it could come down to it.

"The Rabbit Hole," the girl said, rising to her feet. Damian squinted, and he saw in the orange glow of the fire that her hair was long and yellow, set loose around her shoulders and tumbling to her waist. "Maybe we should start calling Dog White Rabbit."

"Do you like that, boy?" cooed the boy beside Damian. As things became clearer, Damian saw the child had red hair, and he bent before the dog, rubbing the beast behind the ears.

"He's not white," Damian said, his voice sounding incredulous and confused. He winced. "Nor is he a rabbit."

"Wow," the blonde girl said, folding her arms across her chest. "No shit, Sherlock."

"Artemis," the other girl gasped, her eyes going wide. Damian felt self conscious looking at her. She seemed to be the complete opposite of him in coloring, with dark, healthy looking skin, and wide brown eyes, and a head full of dark curls. "Come on, be polite!"

"Don't have to be if I don't wanna," replied Artemis. She was glaring at Damian, and he could feel it. "I don't trust this one, Colin."

"Well," Colin said, standing up straight. He smiled brightly at Damian, and that made him feel odd and even more wary. "Dog likes him. And Dog's never been wrong before."

"Dog isn't exactly trustworthy either," Artemis said with a huff. "I mean, do we know him at all?"

"He's a dog," the brunette girl said, her big eyes glowing in the firelight. "He likes us. And he's so sweet, I mean think of all the animals he's brought to us!"

"Most of them die anyway," Artemis said. She was scowling, and Damian felt the dog go rigid.  _You know she's talking bad about you_ , Damian observed, placing a hand on the beast's back. "I'm just saying, maybe we should stop relying on a dog who isn't ours to protect us."

"Don't worry about her, Dog," Colin said, glaring up at the girl. "She's a cat person."

"You're infuriating," Artemis hissed, plopping back down on the couch beside the brunette.

Colin looked to Damian, and he froze, feeling uncomfortable at the attention. "She's just bitter because this place is supposed to be a secret," he said, smiling brightly. Damian stared at him blankly, watching the dots on his cheeks stretch. He resisted the urge to ask what they were, and why he had them. "But really, it's just a place we like to go to get away. Are you a runaway?"

Damian struggled to find the words to respond. "I…" He gritted his teeth in irritation. "I suppose that is an apt word for me."

"Your accent is funny," the brunette chirped. "Where are you from?"

"East." Damian glared at her, but as usual, there was no effect. He cursed his eyes, and he cursed his glasses.

"Oh, really?" She beamed at him, and tilted her head. "Artemis's mom is from Vietnam, are you from there?"

"Nell," Artemis hissed, her voice signaling a biting warning.

"What?" the girl, Nell, whined. "You worry too much! He's not gonna do anything about it, Arty, come on!"

"Don't," Artemis said, "call me Arty, Nell, or I swear to god—"

"Anyway!" Colin cried, waving his hands in the air. "So, uh, welcome to the Rabbit Hole. We usually don't get other kids, this is kinda a bad part of town, but you know. Whatever. So I'm Colin, I'm the one who found this place. Obligatory leader of sorts."

"You wish, you gingerbread flake," Artemis remarked.

"They have this fight all the time," Nell said, smiling at Damian. He found himself flushing, and wondering if they would be so kind if they knew what he looked like. "It's so silly, because we don't need a leader, and I keep telling them—"

"She's Nell, and that's Artemis," Colin cut in, pointing at each girl respectively. "We're all kind of like runaways too."

"Kind of is the operative word," Artemis said.

"We kind of just sneak out to have these secret midnight meetings," Nell said excitedly. "Because it's irritating for us to get to each other during the day. Colin's got a pretty strict rule set with the nuns, and Artemis—"

"Don't." Artemis glared down at the brunette girl, and Damian watched with growing interest. "Don't say it."

"Artemis just likes being a badass and sneaking out," Colin said, smirking as the girl glared at him.

"Colin!" Nell chastised, frowning a little.

"Anyway, what's your name?" Colin asked, looking down at Damian. "And you can take some of that stuff off. The fire makes it real toasty in here."

"I would prefer not to." Damian took a step away from Colin's extended hand, and he hugged his cloak around him cautiously.

That seemed to get them all staring at him, and he felt the need to bolt away. To run as fast as he could, and to hide from every other human being he came across. And then they looked at him with pity. He was almost enraged, but he had no strength to snap at them. He was tired, and he was starving, and he was still very cold, and he felt nausea stirring in his stomach.

"It's okay, you know," Nell said, rising to her feet slowly. "You can totally trust us."

 _Or I can kill you_ , Damian thought, stepping back again as she stepped closer. "Do  _not_  come near me," he hissed, his back bumping against a wall. He nearly knocked over a lantern, and he pulled up his scarf so it covered his mouth and nose again. "I will sleep, and then leave."

"Is there someone after you?" Colin asked, his eyes widening. "We can help! Right guys?"

"Define help," Artemis said dryly.

"Not being mean," Nell whispered, shooting a sharp look back at the blonde girl. She turned back to Damian, and she gave him a very big smile, which caused him discomfort. "We'll try and help as best as we can, though. Just tell us your name."

"I don't need help," Damian snapped. "I need Jason Todd."

That caused them to look at each other with wide eyes. "Wait," Artemis said. "Like, the Wayne kid?"

"Yes." Damian stared at them, and he found himself wondering as they exchanged glances.  _Maybe I can use them_ , he thought, blinking as the dog licked his hand again. He sighed, and sat down on the cement floor, rubbing the beast's very large, very dark head.  _You're not so bad, Dog_.

"What do you want with Jason Todd?" Nell asked curiously. She was the closest to Damian, and she sat down across from him, her large purple sweatshirt swimming around her knees. She reached out, petting Dog's head gently.

Damian could not answer. He took a deep breath, and he looked down at the dog, watching the beast's tail wag fast, thumping happily against the concrete floor. Colin sat down beside Nell, looking just as curious, and just as strange. Damian had never met children before, and they all… seemed different. The boy was the palest, and he had those odd dots, and orange hair, and Damian didn't understand any of it. The girl had dark skin and dark eyes and dark hair, and Damian was envious. And Artemis… her hair was long and yellow, yes, but her skin was a warm hue. Or perhaps that was just the firelight. Damian could not tell.

"You're the one who attacked him today," Artemis observed. Damian looked at her sharply, and Nell and Colin jumped, exchanging a look with each other, and then looking at him. "You're an  _assassin_!"

"No."  _Not yet_.

"Then who are you?" the girl demanded, stomping forward and pointing at him accusingly. "Why are you here?"

"Sleep," Damian admitted. "I don't ask for your help, you fool, I just want a place to rest. I will be gone by morning."

"No!" Nell squeaked. Damian stared at her, his brow furrowing in confusion. "No, stay! Gotham is dangerous, and you're new here. Let us help you."

"I want to kill Jason Todd," Damian said, staring at her. He stood up, and he pushed back his hood tearing away his scarf and revealing his fine white hair and pale face. "Do you want to help me with  _that_?"

Dog gave a whine, and Damian ignored him. He observed their faces. They all looked shocked, even the irritatingly mouthy Artemis. He felt satisfied. "I'm… Ghost," he told them. "I am of the League of Shadows."

"You said you weren't an assassin," Artemis spat.

"I'm not," Damian said. "Yet."

"We can't help you kill," Colin said, rising to his feet as well. He was taller than Damian, but Damian knew he could be taken down in one blow. "But you can stay here."

Damian was surprised. Artemis was too. " _What_?" she gasped, grabbing the boy's arm and yanking him back. "Are you kidding me, Colin? He's from the Shadows!"

"So are you!" Colin snapped. The room seemed to become very chilly, and Damian could feel the shift in the mood. They had all seemed to gone into shock, and there was anger and fear radiating off Artemis, who had gone rigid, her eyes wide in… hurt. She was hurt by his words. Damian, however, was curious.

"No I'm not," Artemis whispered. "Shut up, Colin! You don't know  _anything_!"

"Quiet!" Nell gasped, leaping to her feet as well. Her hands were on the dog's head, and she looked scared and confused. "Stop fighting, please! Colin, that wasn't fair, and you know it. Artemis isn't bad."

"She's still being trained to be an assassin, though," Colin said. He waved his hand at Damian, and he raised his head high. "I'm just making a point. We should let him stay, because otherwise we'd be hypocrites, sheltering one assassin and not another."

"I'm not an assassin, and I don't plan on becoming one," Artemis hissed. "We're completely different!"

"Artemis," Nell whispered, tugging on the older girl's sleeve. "He's right. It's the right thing to do."

"Maybe you think so," Artemis said, spinning away. "But you don't know what they're like. They feed you poison words, and then they try and warp your brain so you think exactly like they do."

"Let's talk about this tomorrow," Nell blurted, glancing at Damian. "In the park, like we said?"

"Yeah, if I can get away, I'll be there," Artemis said with a huff, blowing her hair out of her eyes. "I'm out, though. I've had enough of this League of Shadows bullshit, thanks." She grabbed a coat from the beaten couch and shrugged it on, stuffing her long blonde hair into a hood as she slipped out of the safe house in careful silence.

Damian watched her go, and he itched to call after her. He didn't know any other child in the League of Shadows, and he wanted desperately to understand how her life was. Nell and Colin glanced at each other, and then at Damian. They smiled identical, wane smiles.

"You can stay here as long as you want," Nell offered. "Artemis lives the closest, but I think I can stop by tomorrow with some food."

Damian was shocked at the kindness. Especially considering they now saw what he looked like… for the most part. "Why?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"Because that's the  _good_  thing to do," Nell said, reaching out and taking Damian's hand. He stared at her, and tore his hand back, his confusion overrunning sense and anger. She had touched him.  _Doesn't she see me?_  "You don't have to be bad, you know."

"I told you not to touch me," Damian said faintly. "Why did you touch me?"

"I'm sorry," Nell said, her eyes widening. "I won't do it again if that makes you uncomfortable."

"Do they hurt you in the Shadows?" Colin asked, studying Damian's face closely. When Damian tried to back up, he backed into the wall. He stared at them, his mouth falling open. Why weren't they horrified?

"You're not scared of me," he said, feeling startled and panicked at the realization.

"Well, you're not Arty's dad," Colin said, pursing his lips. "Now there's a scary assassin."

"He's really big and mean," Nell whispered. "And he hurts her."

"Nell, shh," Colin nudged her. "She doesn't like us talking about that."

"But it's  _true_!"

"But I…" Damian slid down the wall, feeling lost as he touched his hair, and then his face. "I'm a monster, I…"

"I wouldn't go that far, Ghost," Colin said, looking strangely worried. Damian squeezed his eyes shut, and he covered his head with his hands, resting his forehead on his knee. "You should stay here for a little while. I can probably smuggle some food too, so you should stay until then."

"Okay," Damian said. Only because he didn't know what else to say.  _They don't think I'm a monster_ , Damian thought numbly.  _They don't think I'm a monster._

Damian fell asleep not long after they killed the fire pit and left. It got very, very cold, and Damian was left shivering on the beaten couch, his dreams nothing but inky blackness and whispers in the dark. He slept longer than he expected, for when he awoke, it was only when something  _crashed_. He bolted up straight, his gasp a wisp of fog in the strange, glimmering whiteness of morning. He felt half frozen, and there was frost caked to his cloak, and sticking against his eyelashes. When he looked up, he saw that there was a hole in the ceiling right above the remains of the fire pit, gaping and jagged, floorboards visible through the chasm like splintered teeth.  _Welcome to the Rabbit Hole,_ he thought, bemused at the title. He breathed, and squinted.

A black form had slipped through a broken window, and Damian stared with a hand grasping a kunai as the man collapsed to the ground.


	15. The Melancholy Bird

**{the melancholy bird}**

_-Nature had formed him for sadness-_

The thing about flying was that it was utterly terrifying, and Jason actually hated it with every fiber of his being. There was a difference between gliding through the air and being suspended in flight. And yeah, Jason was a little terrified. The ground was moving very, very fast beneath him, and he already had a headache. Now he just felt nauseous, which wasn't a great thing to add onto his already terrible day. He couldn't even look down, he was so scared Superboy was going to drop him.

If truth be told, Jason was a mess. He felt like the entire world had turned on its head over night, and he was sick and confused and hopeless. The more he dwelled on it, the harsher everything seemed to be. He had been comatose. Four years of his life had been stripped away from him, and there was a raw and bloody wound left over. Some accident had stolen four years, and his leg, and Jason couldn't deal. He didn't want to. He wanted to hide away and pretend that none of it had happened. He wanted Bruce to tell him that it was all just a bad dream, that none of it was true.

But Bruce was nowhere to be found. And Jason was left to wondering just how much the man cared after all.  _I can't blame him for this_ , Jason thought.  _Can I?_  He didn't know. He was so confused, his head was spinning, and pounding, and his stomach squirmed with discomfort. He just couldn't grasp it. The world just felt like a nightmare, and he wanted to wake up so desperately it hurt.

They landed, thankfully, and Jason's head lolled back as he moaned in relief. "Please," Jason said weakly, "don't do that again."

"Sorry," Superboy said, looking sheepish. "Are you okay?"

"You keep asking me that question," Jason said, closing his eyes. He inhaled deeply though his nose. " _No_. I'm not okay."

"I'm sorry, man," Superboy said, sounding genuinely apologetic. "We'll take care of you for now though, okay? Once this assassin business is done with, you can go home, and then stuff will be okay."

"No," Jason said. "It won't."

Superboy did not respond. He merely looked down at Jason with pitying eyes, and Jason couldn't stand it. It felt like every bit of him had been torn away, and now Jason had to try and find all the pieces before it was too late. He didn't know how to think or feel, and he knew that he was in for a rough time ahead of him. This was his misfortune. His life was just a joke.

"Okay, wait, so explain who this Oracle person is," Jason said.

It turned out he didn't have to. Because they'd reached the apartment they were looking for.

"Fuck," Jason swore, his eyes widening. It was like a completely different world, and it was all computers, and it was actually pretty damn awesome.

"Hey, O," Superboy called. "Special delivery!"

The woman who rolled before them was not who he'd been expecting. A stranger had been his instinct, but seeing Barbara Gordon sitting in her chair (which, at first, he'd forgotten about), decked in a soft smile and a worried expression? He felt a chill prickle down his spine, and he stared at her, feeling a strange sensation of relief. For the first time since waking up that morning, Jason felt  _safe_.

"Babs," he breathed, forgetting that he was missing a leg. He rolled, falling out of Superboy's arms and collapsing onto the floor. It hurt, but he didn't care. He heard her gasp, and he pushed himself up shakily, his left knee aching from the pressure. His stump tingled, and he itched to stand up, and he tried to, but he merely collapsed back onto his hands.

He felt Barbara's palm against his back as he watched his arms shake pitifully. "Jason, no," she whispered. He looked up at her, feeling tears in his eyes. He could feel his entire body trembling.

"Barbara," he said, settling on sitting up, the majority of his body leaning to his left side.

She smiled, and before she even reached for him he found himself attaching to her, clutching her like she was his lifeline. He hadn't been aware of his tears until Barbara had pushed him back, gently placing her hands on either side of his cheeks, and wiping the tracks with the pad of her thumbs.

"Hey," she whispered, her smile widening. He saw her blue eyes glittering, and he felt choked on a sob. "No crying. Today should be happy."

"How?" Jason gasped, his eyes going wide in horror. "How can I be happy? Babs, I don't know what's happening, and I can't— I can't  _think_ , I feel like I'm going to explode, there's so much in my head, and I don't understand—"

"Shh," she hushed. She hugged him again, smoothing back his hair as tenderly as a mother would. "I'll explain what I can. Why don't I find you a wheelchair, and then me and you can catch up?"

"Please," he said with a rasping laugh, pulling away to scrub at his eyes. He felt ridiculous, and he gritted his teeth to stop the tears. "God, I feel like such a tool, oh my god."

"Shut up," Barbara said, her voice light and teasing. "Conner, can you get my spare chair? It's in my closet— through that door over there." Barbara waved to her right, and Superboy gave a nod, quickly disappearing through the doorway. Jason scowled at his hands, which were now wet with tears, and he took a deep breath.

"What happened to me?" he asked, staring up at Barbara desperately. "Tim said there was an explosion."

"There was," Barbara said. "Four years ago, give or take a week or so. To be honest, I don't even know all the details. B was very secretive about it. But I do know that you ended up in Ethiopia." Barbara tilted her head, watching Jason's eyes. "The Joker got you, Jason."

"What?" Jason felt as though someone had punched him in the gut, and he recoiled. "No. What?" His breathing grew shaky, and his migraine grew worse. "No, I'd remember something like that. No."

"Jason," Barbara said. She looked so sad, he wanted to scream. "You had a lot of brain damage. It's not surprising that you don't remember."

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. He felt numb, and his head was pounding, and so was his heart, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"I don't have to keep going," Barbara said gently, placing her hand on his shoulder. He jerked back, glaring at her sharply. She flung her hands into the air in defense, and he relaxed a little.

"No," he said, taking a deep breath as Superboy returned with a wheelchair at hand. "Keep going. I need to know what happened to me."

Barbara gave a small sigh as Jason tried to maneuver himself into the chair. Superboy ended up having to help him, which might have been embarrassing if it wasn't for the fact that he'd been carrying him around before anyway. Jason was past the point of shame. He wasn't sure if he knew what pride was anymore, and it felt awful. But he ignored it.

"Talk," Jason said, rolling his wheelchair closer to Barbara's. He realized, startled for a moment, that he was much taller than her. She had to look up at him to speak, and that was a shock all on its own. Before she'd been wheelchair bound, they'd been almost the same height. Now he was so much taller than her, and it was so jarring that he slumped in his seat to make himself feel better. It didn't work. Was Barbara always so  _tiny_?

"I told you," Barbara said slowly, tucking a red curl behind her ear. "I don't know all the details. And what I do know might not satisfy you."

"I don't care," Jason said. "Tell me everything you know."

She sighed, and he watched her adjust her glasses. He had known she had glasses, of course, but he couldn't remember her wearing them too often. It just seemed out of place to him. "The Joker didn't have you for long," Barbara said, pressing her lips together thinly. She still wore the same red lipstick she'd worn as Batgirl, which was something he could appreciate. He was glad for something to be the  _same_. Even her hair looked different. "A few hours. Three max. It was enough, though. Bruce got there just in time— any later, and you'd have been dead for sure. You were heavily burned in the explosion, and your wounds…"

"Amputation," Jason sighed, glaring at his stump. "Got it."

"I'm so sorry, Jason," Barbara said, reaching out and grasping his hand. He felt her squeeze it, and he closed his eyes. He felt sick to his stomach. "You were in critical condition for so long, no one was really sure if you were going to make it. The doctors kept saying it was up to  _you_. Whether or not you pulled through, it was your choice, your struggle. I think what we were most scared of was what it would mean if you did die." Barbara's eyes were gleaming again, and he felt awful about it. "That maybe it meant that you didn't think life was worth it anymore."

"Well, obviously I thought there was  _something_  good about living." Jason frowned, and leaned back in his seat. He drummed his thumbs against the armrests of his chair, and shrugged. "Dunno what, though. Guess it wasn't too important, huh?"

"Oh, shut up," Barbara said, smirking a little. "You love life, stupid. I know you do. So stop moping, and look on the bright side. You're awake. And you've got a whole lot of living ahead of you."

Jason stared at his stump, and he wondered how much living he'd truly get to do. "Do I have to go back to school?" he blurted, looking up at her with wide eyes. She looked equally wide eyed, and then she burst out laughing. "What? Shit, Babs, I'm serious! I am not going back to high school, okay? I probably didn't even miss that much."

"You can talk to Bruce about it when he gets back," Barbara said, smiling up at him. "But for now you're not going anywhere. Are you hungry by the way?"

"Got any chilidogs?" he asked. She barked a laugh, and she shook her head.

"Uh, no."

"I can pick up some chilidogs," Superboy offered. "Since no one's really here anyway."

"Vic's here," Barbara said, waving offhandedly behind her. "Somewhere. I just hope he doesn't try to tweak my system, or anything. Because then I'd give him so much hell, he'd wish he wasn't part computer."

"I'm trying to imagine," Superboy said, cocking an eyebrow. "All I hear is a lot of swearing and typing in my future. So I'm going to go get that food now."

"Where did Tim go?" Barbara asked, as if she had only just noticed the boy wasn't there.

"Wait," Jason said, holding up a hand. "Back up. You and Tim are friends?"

"We bonded over your hospital bed." Barbara gave him a dry, grim smirk, and looked back to Superboy. "Seriously though, is he okay?"

"Uh… kinda?" Superboy scratched his head. "Okay enough. He said he'd be here soon."

When Supeboy left, Jason blinked, and he scooped up the plastic bag full of knives he'd dropped. "Uh, in other news," Jason said, offering them to her. "Knives from the cat."

"Ooh," Barbara said, resting the bag on her lap. "Good, I almost ran out of things to do. Wanna help me classify this stuff?"

"Sure."

It ended up being more fun than he'd expected. He kept Barbara talking in spite of herself, and he found out little details about the past four years. Bruce found a dog in Jason's absence, but otherwise there was not much change to report about the manor. Barbara and Tim had bonded monumentally, and Tim now worked for her part time as a hero of sorts, while still doing his own thievery thing. Tim was single, which Jason had asked out of curiosity, and not because of how goddamn creepy Jason knew he was when it came to Tim Drake. The kid had had a few relationships here and there, but nothing exceptionally serious. He'd also been hung up on a thief called Spoiler for a very long time, but Barbara told him she thought it was more because she'd disappeared without a trace than anything else. In other news, Barbara was also single, though when Starfire came back, Jason did have to wonder.

"So," he said when the orange woman left the room. "Did you two fuck, or what?"

"Wow," Barbara said, her eyebrows rising. She didn't look away from her computer screen, though, which bothered him. "Blunt and to the point. I've missed you so much, Jay."

"Was that sarcasm?" Jason twirled one of the assassin's knives around, resting his chin in his palm as he watched Barbara's back.

"No." Barbara smiled, and this time she did spare him a glance. "I really did miss you. So did Bruce."

"Yeah," Jason said, stabbing the knife into the table he'd been leaning against and rolling away. "I feel so missed."

"Jason, he's with—"

"The League, I know!" Jason scowled at his stump, and then glared up at the ceiling. "It's just shitty, okay? I feel really shitty. Can we play like, wheelchair basketball or something?"

"Kind of busy, Jason. If you're bored, why don't you talk to Kory? I'm sure she'd love that."

"Ah," Jason said, smirking at her back. "Yes, I think I'll just do that. She'll probably be nice and give me all the unabridged details of your scandalous relationship."

"There was nothing scandalous about it," Barbara said, waving him off. "Though, you should have seen my dad's reaction. He was less freaked out about the fact that she was a girl, and more freaked out about the fact that she was an alien. I blame sci-fi movies."

"I think he had the right to be freaked out," Jason said. "I mean, it's not like you ever told him about being Batgirl."

"I think he knew." Barbara shrugged, and continued working as if it was nothing.

Tim ended up showing up a little before sundown. He came in a rush of air, because Kid Flash was right on his heels, and that was startling. Jason stared at him with wide eyes, and looked over at Barbara. "Hey, Babs? Didn't he have red hair before?"

"You're thinking of Wally," Kid Flash laughed. "I'm Bart! The new Kid Flash!"

"Oh." Jason rubbed his forehead, grimacing as his migraine got steadily worse. "Well. Shit, then."

"Hey, Oracle," Tim said, stepping into the room. Jason did a double take, and he realized that the boy had a hostage. "I think I found someone who could help us."

"Kidnapped her, more like," Jason remarked. Tim ignored him, and the girl shuffled her feet, bobbing her head from side to side. She was blindfolded, and her arms were bound behind her back. She looked incredibly uncomfortable.

"Consensual kidnapping," the girl said with a shrug. "I agreed to come."

"Then why are you tied up and blindfolded?" Jason asked.

"Uh," the girl said. "Great question. Can you get this stuff off me, please?"

"Sorry," Tim said, cutting her loose. She tugged down the blindfold, and gave a soft huff. Jason saw that her eyes were big and blue, and he felt this nagging that he'd seen them before. But it passed, and he ignored it. "Guys, this is Stephanie."

"Hi," she said, waving. Barbara had turned away from her screen to look at her, and she seemed curious. Starfire appeared again, hovering in the doorway with Superboy behind her. Jason thought they might have been having an arm wrestling match, but the lack of a crash signaled that they probably hadn't finished it. "So, uh… I'm Steph. You probably know me better as Spoiler though."

"What?" Superboy said flatly. He looked about ready to burst through a wall, though.

"Spoiler?" Barbara looked surprised.

"You know, it's shocking we didn't find her earlier," Tim said. "I mean, she's been surfacing on the radar now for a few months. You'd think we'd notice."

"That is probably my fault," Barbara said, her eyes widening. "I've been swamped lately. I'm sorry, Tim, I should have checked—"

"No worries," Tim said, stepping forward. "But I've got good news. Steph knows about the kid from the hospital."

Barbara looked at Stephanie sharply, and Jason found he could only sit and watch, his eyebrows rising higher and higher as he listened.  _God, how did this ridiculousness start with me?_ "You know who it is?" Barbara asked slowly, her eyes narrowing.

"Well… kind of. You see—"

"I'm sorry, are we just ignoring that she's Deathstroke's apprentice now?" Superboy asked, his eyes widening. "Because, I don't know, guys, I'm not sure how much of this side switching stuff I can take!"

"It's just for right now, Supes," Stephanie said, winking at the boy. "I'll totes be trying to kill you guys again by Monday, so don't get too sad."

"Deathstroke's apprentice," Barbara repeated, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at the blonde girl. "How did that happen?"

She shifted, looking a little uncomfortable. "Well," she said, sighing. She pulled off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. "Shit happened. I pissed him off. Then caught his interest? I don't know, it's weird. But he… well, for lack of a better word abducted me. And then I trained with him for a little while, and well?" She smiled brightly. "Here we are! So, about the Ghost—"

"Wait," Tim said. "Hold up. You never told me you were  _abducted_!"

Stephanie looked at him, and she blinked. "It wasn't important?" She folded her arms across her chest and frowned. "I mean, it doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything!"

"I'm still going to be a murderer," Stephanie said vacantly. "And I'm still going to be his apprentice. Sorry, kitty."

"You're wrong," Tim said, his voice half a whisper. "It means that this wasn't your choice. You can be better than this, you know."

"And you can stop stealing," Stephanie said, cocking her head. She sounded calm, all things considering. Jason admired that, but he wondered why she wasn't flipping the hell out. "We can go at this forever, but that's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here, exactly?" Barbara asked. "What's in it for you?"

"Uh," Stephanie said, bouncing up and down. "Well, my life. I need to find that kid. He's called Ghost, and he's from the League of Shadows.  _Not_  sent on a mission to kill Jason Todd." Stephanie glanced at Jason, and blinked for a few seconds. "Who is right here. Well."

"Wait," Starfire said, her voice sounding far away and vacant. "You are saying… that the assassin who attempted a strike against Jason's life… was not supposed to be doing so?"

"No." Stephanie shook her head. "Ghost was never sent on a mission anywhere. He ran away, and now he's targeting Jason specifically."

" _Why_?" Jason sat back, letting her words sink in. "Dude, I've been in a coma for four years, who did I piss off?"

"I wasn't told that," Stephanie said. "But I know that the Ghost isn't going to stop until he kills you. He's a monster. And coming from my source?" Stephanie gave a shudder. "That means a whole lot."

 _But he's just a kid_ , Jason thought. He stared at his stump, and he closed his eyes, his thoughts flashing back to his own tumultuous childhood.  _It's not his fault. It's the adults that made him this way_.


	16. The Despondent Talom

**{the despondent talon}**

_-Let misery hide itself in silence, otherwise it becomes treason-_

He was in a haze of ice. There were white, fluffy flakes falling all around him, fluttering in swirling gust of red wind that blew burnt, icy mist into his eyes. He could not see, and he could not feel, and the world felt like it was shattering in half as it glittered and hissed, cold and unforgiving as winter's grasp. When he breathed, he felt knives in his throat. He felt a chill in his bones. And he spun, his body stretching and bending, feeling light and feathery as he moved.

"Hello?" he called, moving into the white abyss. He felt weary and scared, and is body was fluttering in the wind. His voice ricocheted back at him. White wavered, and red swirled, and he breathed in blood and exhaled smoke. The world was a series of wisps, snow and blood beating at him, piercing his skin. He coughed, and stumbled, feeling like someone was trying to tear out his bones, claws and blades prodding through his muscle and skin, ripping him up and casting him off.

The ice was caking to him. And he was bleeding. He felt it, he felt the wounds, and he was dizzy with death, and red, and white. The world was whirling. And he screamed, failing against the wind, and falling upward into the air. His limbs flailed and froze, ice clinging to them and snapping. He screamed louder, and he breathed, his mist of breath red and swirling like crystallized droplets of blood.

He slammed against the ground, and he felt it shatter. The ground cracked up, and it spit needles of ice at him, slicing through his skin and sending him into a shaky, convulsing mess.  _Help_ , he thought wildly, falling into a chasm of white. He felt as though the world had disappeared, and now he was spiraling into a void if ice and blood. He breathed, and he screamed, and he felt the world collapse around him.

He awoke with a jolt. The world was just as cold as he thought it had been, but it wasn't quite as white. He felt numb, but there was a creeping sting that told him he was injured. There was a stream of pale light fluttering through the crack in a window to his left, and it was then that he realized that there were ropes chafing his wrists and ankles, and binding his arms to his chest. His mask was missing, and there was a cold, unforgiving draft that sliced against his bare cheeks.

"He's awake," a soft, strangely thick voice said. Talon's mind went wild trying to register the odd accent.  _A child_ , he thought. He hated when he had to deal with children. It made him feel like a monster.

"What?" another voice squeaked, a girl. She had a higher voice, and it was sweeter and more childish.

"He's awake," repeated the accented voice. Talon felt soft footsteps against unrefined wood, but he did not hear them, which struck him as odd. Usually his hearing picked up even the softest of footsteps. Talon blinked as a small, skinny hand grabbed him by the hair and yanked him upright. It  _was_  a child, to be sure, a skinny child in a mismatch of layers. His clothing was distinctly eastern in origin, and as Talon observed him, he found himself linking the clothing to the middle east, perhaps. The boy's skin, however, was very pale, almost sickly sallow, and his hair was thin and fine and white as snow. It looked fluffy and soft too, which made Dick remember a snowfall from years and years ago.  _Dad, come on, it's a_ snowman _, duh!_  He swallowed, and he looked away from the boy's face. He was wearing dark tinted glasses.

"Welcome to the Rabbit Hole," the white haired boy said, his voice smooth as honey and thick as a blanket of snow. His accent wasn't recognizable. It was a pool, a mixture of different tongues choking in the boy's throat. He didn't seem to know which voice to use, and so he used an amalgamation.

"You know, we're kind of running out of room for strays," said another boy, his voice higher, and clearer. He was taller than the white haired boy, and he wore less layers. His hair was bright red, and his face was faintly freckled. He also wore a lazy smile, as if he didn't have a care in the world. Dick was jealous. "So like, how many assassins can we fit in this place before Batman bursts in?"

"Batman's away, Col'," the girl said, coming into view. She was the shortest, and the one who appeared the youngest. She had big brown eyes, and a curious gaze, and a small smile. "Looks like it's up to us to clean up Gotham, huh?"

"You know," the redhead said, flipping a strap in the air and catching it. Talon stared, and with wide eyes he realized it was his belt full of knives. "I was thinking exactly the same thing."

"So what do we do with him?" the girl asked, peering at Talon closely. Talon watched her every move, and he gritted his teeth. Children. Children were his weakness, and he knew it. He could kill them. He knew he had the ability to. But Talon was weak and cold, and he could feel his wounds. They felt fatal.

"I can kill him for you," the white haired boy said. Talon focused his attention on him. He was lithe, that was clear, and he was probably very fast. Dangerous. Talon wondered if it was true.  _Kill me, then_ , Talon thought.  _Try it, and maybe I'll stay dead_.

"Um,  _no_!" the other two gasped in unison. They glanced at each other, and the girl shook her head. "Ghost, we don't do that. We give people chances to prove themselves."

"That is idiotic and childish," the white haired boy sighed. "It will get you killed before it helps  _anyone_ , you imbeciles."

"You're wrong, Ghost," the redhead said. "We gave you a chance, and you didn't disappoint."

"Tt. I merely was taking a precaution," Ghost huffed, glaring down at Talon. "It had nothing to do with you."

"And that's why you're still here," the redhead said, smirking down at Ghost. "Disregarding the information we gave you about Jason Todd to stay with us." Talon looked at the boy sharply, and stared for a few moments.  _Jason Todd_ , he thought.  _They know something about Jason Todd_. Perhaps the children could be of use. The thought made him straighten up. Yes, that was it. There was no need to kill them.

Ghost visibly went rigid, and he looked at the redhead sharply, rage contorted his features. "Don't  _test_  me, you ingrate," Ghost spat, his arm whipping out. Talon watched as the tiny boy pointed a kunai at the redhead's face, the tip of it brushing the child's nose. "I am only still here because I need to know his purpose!"

"Sure you are," said the redhead, unfazed by the blade pointing at his nose.

"Colin—" the girl gasped, looking between the two boys frantically. "Maybe you shouldn't provoke him."

"You should listen to her," Ghost said, raising his head high. "She is much more sensible than you. Which is saying something."

The girl looked at Ghost sharply, and she scowled, placing her hands on her hip. "Don't you test  _me_ , ghost boy," she said, her voice sharp and accusing. "Stop being a total jerkface already, it's getting old! You're like, part of the team now, okay? You don't need to be all aloof and angry, it's just a waste of time!"

"You don't know anything," Ghost sneered. "And I'm not part of your team."

"You're totally part of the team," Colin said, smiling broadly as Ghost lowered his arm.

"Do not make me hurt you, Colin."

"Call me Abuse," Colin said, sticking his hands in the pockets of his bright red hoodie. He glanced at Talon, and frowned. "For right now, anyway."

"Abuse," Ghost repeated. He looked to the girl, and he scowled. "Do you have an alias too?"

"Um, no, actually." She said. She looked thoughtful for a moment, and she beamed. "But I can make one up!"

"You do that," Ghost said, turning back to Talon. "Now. What to do with you."

Talon cocked his head. He felt naked without his mask, and very vulnerable. But what could children do that he hadn't tried? "Maybe," Talon said, his voice very hoarse. It felt like glass slipping from his throat, but he ignored it. "Maybe we can help each other."

Ghost raised an eyebrow, and he saw that it was saw pale that it could barely be seen. Colin and the girl peered at Talon curiously, and the girl grinned broadly. "We're really lucky that the bad guys we collect are reasonable," she chirped. She glanced at Ghost, and her smile half fell. "Well, for the most part."

"I would say lucky," Colin said, frowning down at Talon. "More like we seem to attract a lot of danger."

"And why," Ghost said, tilting his head, "would we help you?"

"Jason Todd," Talon said, blinking as Ghost yanked at his hair. It was then that Dick realized it hadn't been cut in a while. It fell across his forehead in a mass of unruly spikes. He watched Ghost snap to attention, his interest obviously perking up. "I want him. You know something about him."

"Oh my god, what is with this dude?" Colin asked, his eyes widening. "Who drew the target on the poor guy's head, the president?"

"You want Jason Todd," Ghost said. "Why?"

Talon had to be tentative. These were children after all. But then, lying would not get him anywhere, and he knew it. And obviously the boy seemed to have no qualms on killing. That bothered him.  _Children shouldn't be this way_ , he thought sadly.  _Children should have a chance to live_.

"I want to kill him," Talon said.

"Surprise," Colin muttered, rolling his eyes.

Ghost stood silently for a short while, his pouting lips pressing together thinly. Talon watched him, staring up into the tinted lenses of his glasses. The boy looked pensive, and that was enough for Talon. I thoughtful child could be trapped.  _And not murdered_. Talon was relying too much on hope, and that was growing to be an issue. But he had no wish to harm the children. They seemed… sweet.

"I want to kill him as well," said Ghost, raising his arm. He pointed the kunai's tip at Talon, and he could feel it grazing his throat. "I need to be the one to do it."

"Why?" Talon asked, tilting his chin up high. The world was so cold, he felt sickened and weak and uncertain of how much more he could take.

"That is none of your business." Ghost jerked his hand, and Talon felt the slim point of the kunai slice through his jugular. It was a biting pain, cold as the winter's kiss, and Talon gurgled as he choked on his own blood, and slumped forward into a pool of it. The last thing he heard before darkness settled was the sound of children shrieking.

He awoke as if from a shivering pool of dark, coagulated water, and the first thing he heard was shouting.

"— so unbelievable! I mean, how can you trust this kid after  _that_?!" New voice. Feminine, but coarse and bristly. Talon opened his eyes, and he saw nothing but a wooden floor below him, which was dark and shadowy. It was now, apparently, night time. That was troubling.

"They still seem to trust you," a voice said— Ghost. Talon's head was swimming, and the pain jolting through his body was near unbearable, but he did recognize the voice. He did remember. That was a shame. But Talon could feel warmth stretching through the room, and he closed his eyes as he smelled the vapors of smoke. A fire. A fire was what he needed to heal properly. Just a little more warmth…

"I'm not an assassin!" the harsh voice cried.

"Not yet," Ghost replied, his voice as cold and sharp as the winds outside. "But your father works for the League of Shadows. He is training you to follow in his footsteps. In the end, you will be no better than me, so spare me your disgust. Do you think he was any better? That man is a killer too. I saw it in his eyes. He is a monster, same as me, and none of your squabbling will change that!"

"You're right," the girl snapped. "You  _are_  a monster. You're just a sad little monster, and you don't care about anything or anyone! Why don't you go run back to the Shadows and leave us alone!"

"Artemis, stop!" a soft voice cried. The little girl from before, likely. "She didn't mean it, Ghost, I swear— wait, where are you going?"

"To hell, hopefully," the harsh girl, Artemis said. "Thanks for the mess. Hope Batman gets you."

"You should run," Ghost said. "If you have no wish to join the Shadows, then you should run."

"It's not that simple."

"Then you are  _weak_ ," Ghost hissed. "You're a spineless little girl. The Shadows wouldn't even want you. Surely someone so cowardly—"

There was shuffling, and Talon could hear the struggle. He could feel it. The ground shook as a body hit the ground, and the younger girl's shriek filled the room.

"Stop!" the girl cried. "Stop fighting!"

"I told you!" Ghost snarled. "You're weak!"

"Get off her, Ghost!" Colin gasped. The struggle sounded like nothing more than a small scuffle, but even so, Dick bolted up straight.  _That's enough_ , he thought, slipping out of the bonds he had loosened before the Ghost had slit his throat. He saw that there were four children now, all relatively small and all twisted together. They were grunting and gasping, soft shrieks as punches flew. Dick shed the ropes, setting them aside and rising carefully to his feet. His throat had just about healed, and the rest of his wounds were closing as well. The warmth from the fire gave him strength. And he bolted forward, his eyes on the back of the Ghost, who was struggling against Colin and the younger girl.

Dick wrapped his arms around the boy's abdomen and yanked him upward, whirling him away. The boy fought wildly, his voice a screech in Dick's ears. But Dick was much stronger, and he squeezed the boy until his flailing stopped. He grappled at Dick's arms, making weak noises of objection, his head twisting to look up.

"I  _killed_  you!" Ghost cried.

"If only." Dick released him, only to spin him around and pin his arms to his sides. The boy bared his teeth at Dick, and jumped up, his feet slamming against Dick's chest.

"Let me go!" Ghost shouted, kicking wildly. "This time I'll make sure you stay dead!"

"I'll let you if you apologize," Dick said, squeezing the boy's biceps until he gasped.

" _What_?"

"Apologize." Dick released him, and the Ghost flipped off him, landing on his feet in a defensive stance. "To her. The girl you hurt."

"He didn't hurt me."

Talon turned around, and he froze as his eyes settled on the girl's face. She was watching him with a strange sort of fascination in her expression. Her face was slimmer than he remembered, but she'd grown up quite a bit since then. Her eyes were the same, though. Naturally curious and sharp, narrowed at his face, and the color of dark ash.

He stood up straight, and he looked at the other children. They were both staring at him incredulously, and the younger girl was swatting Colin's arm, her mouth agape as she stared at Dick. The Ghost was staring at Dick too, a scowl on his lump little lips.

"You remember me," Artemis said suddenly. Dick stared at her, and he took a step back. That seemed to be enough for her. Her eyes widened, and she looked furious and confused and awed all at once. "You suck, you know that? I mean, it's not at the top of my list of traumatizing experiences, but damn, it got close. I was six!"

"Artemis, you know this guy?" Colin asked, his wide eyes moving to the blonde girl's face.

"He's only been the subject of my nightmares for years," Artemis said bitterly.

"And you were so upset when he was dead," Ghost sneered.

"Shut up." Artemis glared at the small boy, and she folded her arms across her chest. "You both suck."

"Suck  _what_?" Ghost asked, his sneer turning into a grimace. "What does that even mean?"

"God," Artemis said, staring at him blankly. "You've been living under a rock your entire life, haven't you?"

"Artemis who is this guy?" Colin asked, pointing at Dick.

Artemis stared at Dick, her eyes narrowing. He stared right back, and he had to wonder what had happened after they had met the first time.  _Her father is an assassin_ , Dick thought.  _That explains why no one ever came looking for me_.

Artemis turned to Colin, straightening up considerably. She was taller than the boy, but not by very much. "He's the Talon," she said. Dick stared at her, and he exhaled, looking away. "He almost killed me once after I tried to help him."

"Almost," Dick said, his voice soft. "But I didn't."

Artemis shook her head in disbelief, glaring at him with such fervor that he could almost feel her hatred. "Who cares?" she snapped. "You're still awful."

"I don't want to hurt you," Dick said, feeling desperate. He sounded desperate too. He might have even looked desperate. "I don't… I don't want to hurt anyone."

"And yet…" Artemis glared at him, but he ignored it. He looked to Colin, and he took a deep breath. He had to entreat with these children. He had to cater to their pity if he wanted to keep them alive.

"You're the Talon," Colin said, staring at him with widening eyes. "Like… from the rhyme?"

"Oh  _yeah_ , that's the one," Artemis said, scowling.

"Rhyme?" Ghost asked, walking carefully away from Dick, back to the youngest girl's side. Dick sighed, wondering when his life had turned into a creepy little rhyme that children were told to scare them.

"Oh, right, you're not from here," the younger girl said. "It's a nursery rhyme. Everyone knows it. Um… Beware the court of owls, that watches all the time. Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime."

Colin picked up quickly, reciting the poem easily, as if it had been on his mind all along. "They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed." The trio looked at each other, and they finished the horrible poem in unison. "Speak not a whispered word of them, or they'll send the talon for your head."

Dick looked away, feeling sad and awkward and unsure.  _Children_ , he thought, closing his eyes.  _Why does it always have to be children_. Dick didn't know if he'd be able to kill them now if he tried. Even the Ghost seemed to have gone very quiet, the words sinking in, and the eerie silence stretched over them. They all stared at each other, and Dick found himself sinking to his knees, the words scorching themselves into the walls of his mind.  _Speak not a whispered word of them, or they'll send the talon for your head_.

"Is… is he okay?" whispered the younger girl urgently. "Artemis?"

"He's still hurt," Artemis said. "I don't know. What should we do with him?"

"If what you say is true," Ghost said, his voice very quiet. "We should dispose of him before he tells his… Court."

"I won't," Dick whispered, hugging himself. He felt shaky and cold, and younger than he'd felt in years. The children were reminding him that he was still human. And he felt like a child, like a boy who had been through hell and forced to become something he wasn't, and he felt tears in his eyes. "I promise I won't. I promise, I…" Dick choked on his words, and stared ahead of him, feeling a little dead on the inside, as he pressed his hand to his mouth to stifle a scream.

"Pathetic," Ghost spat.

Dick closed his eyes, and he shook his head. He had no idea what to do, and he felt like his entire world was crashing down on his head, and he couldn't function. Thoughts were churning in his mind, bursting into flame and then dispersing, and he couldn't focus because he was so tired of everything and being no one and nothing, and he missed being who he'd been before, he missed the happy boy who loved to fly and laugh and run and talk. He missed the child he'd lost to the Court of Owls, and he couldn't bear it if he was the one to wipe another child from the world.

"Hey," a soft voice said. Dick opened his eyes, and it was the younger girl who stood before him, the one who was thus far nameless. She was staring at him with worry in her eyes, and her hand extended out to him. "Don't cry, Talon. It's okay."

Dick lifted a shaky hand to his cheek, and he pulled it away to find his glove glistening. His entire body was trembling, and he could hear his own breathing, shallow and ragged. "Please step away from me," he murmured, curling into himself. He stared at her as her hand fell, as did her face, and she took a step back.

"You said we could help each other," Ghost said, observing him with a raised head. "I still want to kill Jason Todd."

"What is your fixation with Jason Todd?" Artemis asked him, her eyes narrowing.

"It's personal." Ghost shrugged. He looked back to Dick, and he tilted his head. "However, I would not object to having some… assistance getting to him."

"You can kill Jason Todd," Dick said softly. Saying it made his heart hurt, and he took a deep breath as the four children looked at each other with varying expressions.

"We're not helping you with that, dude," Colin told Ghost. "Sorry."

"I did not expect your hospitality to grace me that far." Ghost sniffed, and he fiddled with the red scarf around his neck, turning his face away.

"You don't have to do it," the younger girl said, looking at Ghost with eyes so big and bright, she looked almost like a little beacon. "We can find a place for you here. You don't have to kill people."

"You misunderstand," Ghost said. "I have no wish to kill anyone but Jason Todd. That is what I came here for."

"But why?" Artemis asked, exasperated. "The guy's been through enough in his life, just let him be, you little demon."

"I said it was personal."

"Have you ever even met the dude?" Artemis asked, her eyes widening. "No. I don't think you have. So why is it so  _personal_?"

"Artemis…" Colin said, resting a hand on the girl's arm.

"I'm serious!" Artemis snapped. "I don't get it! Why is this so damn important?"

"Because!" Ghost snapped right back, his teeth baring at the girl. "Because— because it's not  _fair_!"

"What isn't fair?" Colin asked stepping closer to Ghost. "Come on, Ghost, talk to us."

"No!" Ghost covered his face with his hands, and he shook his head profusely. "No, no, no!"

Dick stood up. The boy was shaking, and he was angry and distraught, and Dick knew the feeling. He stepped closer to the child, and then closer still. Colin and Artemis looked at him, and backed away as he neared Ghost, their mouths parting as Dick pressed his hand to the boy's fluffy white hair. And the boy jerked away, looking horrified.

"Don't—!" he snarled.

"Come," Dick said, offering him his hand. "Please."

Ghost looked at him, his mouth agape for a moment. He turned his head to look at the trio, and Dick saw them shaking their heads.  _No_ , they were trying to say.  _Don't do it, don't do it!_ But Dick knew the temptation was too much for the child. And reluctantly, Ghost took Dick's hand.

"I get to kill Jason Todd," Ghost told him, his voice quiet.

"Yes," Dick said, watching as the boy dragged him toward a busted staircase, pulling him down the steps. The fire was on the lower floor, and Dick wondered if they knew how dangerous it was unsupervised. There was a massive black dog lying by the door, and it perked up as Ghost passed by. Ghost paused at the door, and looked back. Dick did too.

The three children were standing at the foot of the stairway, huddled very close together and watching them go with expressions of horror and sadness. The younger girl whose name Dick had never learned waved at them. "Bye, Ghost," she called.

"Goodbye," Ghost said softly, staring at them for a very long moment. He opened his mouth, and his lips trembled for a moment of uncertainty. And then the boy shoved his hood up, spinning around, and h stepped out the door, his cloak fluttering behind him.

Dick had stolen his things back at the last moment, when he'd remembered he'd lost them. As he followed the boy, he strapped his belt back on across his chest. He felt something stalking behind them, and he turned to realize the dog had followed them, padding softly at Dick's back.

"Is this your dog?" Dick asked, looking at the small boy. Ghost was going very slowly now, as if he was afraid to step forward. He looked down sharply as the dog nuzzled his hand, and he jumped a little.

"No, he…" The Ghost looked confused. "I don't know."

"He likes you," Dick observed, stepping up beside the boy and the dog. The boy seemed to be feeling the dog's dark fur, running his hands across it gingerly. It was twilight, and foggy, the night drawing closer and closer with every misty breath.

"He… has an owner." Ghost fingered at the collar, but did not bend to read it.

"Maybe you should bring him back," Dick told the boy, resting his own hand on the dog's head. Dick was surprised when it nuzzled his hand as well.  _Dogs don't usually like me_ , Dick though.  _So why do you?_  "When this is all over, you should find his owner."

Ghost sighed, and he turned away. "Perhaps," he said quietly. For a few minutes they walked like this, creeping in the shadows of the nearing night. The dark was coming fast, and Dick had not a plan in the world on how to find Jason Todd. But as weak as he was, the night was young. And he was ready for it all to end. "So we are in agreement about Todd," Ghost said.

"Yes." They walked nearly side by side, with a large black dog between them. "You and I will find him. You will kill him." Dick took a deep breath, and looked down at the white haired boy. "And then you will kill me."

Ghost looked up at him, his mouth opening, and then closing. He looked very confused, and he stopped altogether for a moment. And then he snapped his head away, scowling at the ground.

"Fine," Ghost said quietly. "I'll kill both of you."


	17. The Livid Kitten

**{the livid kitten}**

_-Destiny sometimes proffers us a glass of madness to drink-_

"You know," Kid Flash said, chewing on a candy bar as they sat on a rooftop and waited. "This Gotham gig? It ain't so hard. We're totally handling things, and when Batman comes back he's gonna be choking, he'll be so relieved!"

"Choking, maybe," Tim said, leaning on his hand as he observed the sight below him. Security cameras had picked up Harley Quinn coming this way, which… well, Tim knew her the best. He got saddled with cleaning up her mess. "But not out of relief."

"What are they doing anyway?" Kid Flash asked, finishing off the candy bar. He spoke with a mouthful of chocolate. "I mean, the other Flash didn't say much, which sucks, because usually he's a total blabber mouth about this kinda stuff, y'know? I'm totally just waiting for him to call and tell us the entire thing. Wally doesn't even know what's up!"

"Maybe the world is ending," Tim said, smirking as he sat down on the roof's ledge.

Kid Flash frowned, deep in thought for a moment. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if it was," he said, pulling out another candy bar from who knew where. He tossed one at Tim, and he caught it, watching the boy curiously. Bart licked his lips free of chocolate, and then he grinned up at Tim. He held up his chocolate bar and winked. "Cheers to the end of the world!"

"Cheers," Tim said, grinning back. They sat and ate for a few minutes, waiting and wondering if they were at the right place. The longer Tim sat, the more he itched to do something else. He could easily go across the street and rob a jewelry store, but there was no point, and he didn't want to get into a fight with Kid Flash. He really liked the guy, he was exciting and talkative, and Tim had a severe lack of people as happy as him in his life.

The Titans plus Tim were all out patrolling except Cyborg, who was working tirelessly on a leg for Jason. Stephanie was left behind as well, and Tim suspected she was being brutally interrogated. He didn't know what to think of the girl, in all honesty. She was sweet, but sort of awful in her own twisted way.  _Maybe we're more alike in that regard,_  he thought. And Tim liked her a lot. He wondered how Selina would react to an assassin catching his interest, but all in all, he doubted his love life could get as messed up as hers… right?

"Hey," Kid Flash gasped, jumping to his feet. "Oh, oh, I see her, I see her!" He zipped away, a streak of yellow in the night, and Tim sighed. He stood up, flexing his fingers, and his silver claws glinted in the castoff lights of Gotham. He slid his goggles over his eyes and smirked. "Well," he said. "Time to start the party."

He jumped, his feet bouncing off fire escapes and skidding on bars. Bart had already stopped Harley in her tracks, causing her to shriek with laughter at the sight of him. Tim dropped down behind her, just as she yawned about how boring it was without the good ol' Bat around. Typical Harley, smiling and laughing, careless and pretending she was more stupid than she truly was.

"Aw, come on, Auntie Harley," Tim said, his voice taking on the soft purr he learned from watching Selina work. "I think we're pretty fun. What about you, Kid Flash?"

"Totally the funnest," Bart chirped, leaning back on the heels of his feet. "Way funner than grumpy old Batman!"

Harley turned to look at Tim, and she stared at him for a moment with wide eyes. Then she grinned. "Aww, Kitty! Whatcha doin' out here with the Flash brat? Oh, noo, you're still playing the hero card, aren'tcha, puddin'?"

"Only when I'm needed," Tim said, cocking his head. "Which, obviously I am. How do you like the sound of jail, Harls?"

Harley scowled then, and she studied him with a bemused expression. "You ain't still mad about my J doing in your birdy boyfriend are you, Kitty?" Harley asked, looking genuinely shocked. Tim frowned, and he found himself reaching for his whip.

"You know," he said. "As a matter of fact, I'm still pretty bitter, yeah."

"You know I had nothin' to do with it, Kitty," sighed Harley. "Why we gotta play this game?"

"Because you don't get it." Tim cracked the whip, and he shook his head, smiling indignantly. It felt tight and fake on his lips. "So, how about it, Harley? Prison, or prison?"

She stared at him, and she burst into a fit of laughter. Tim didn't quite understand why until he felt someone behind him, and he dove out of the way, rolling into a crouch and staring as the Joker flipped a large knife in hand, and cocked his head from side to side, looking between Kid Flash and Catlad.

"Oh this  _is_  a surprise!" shrieked the Joker. "Now, I mean, I thought it'd be just so boring without Batsy around to torment but— well golly!" He grinned at Tim, his snaggled yellow teeth bared. "This just seems like so much fun! It's a shame Batsy isn't around to see it though… Oh well! Joke's on him!"

"God, what did I do to deserve this," Tim muttered, wincing as he heard something blow up not too far away.

"Get anyone good?" Harley asked, looking up at the sky in awe as the night turned a deep orange.

"A couple of bums, the usual," the Joker said, giving a dramatic yawn. "These are the real deal. Kiddies! I haven't fought kiddies in oooooooh…" The Joker spun around wildly, the snow beneath his feet swirling in a circle. "Four years? Gosh, has it been that long since I killed that bird?"

"Shut up," Tim hissed flicking his wrist. His whip smacked against the Joker's neck, and tangled up, tying itself into a noose. Tim watched the Joker struggle, and choke on his laughter, and he yanked on the whip. The Joker's face went flying into the snow, and Harley shrieked, stumbling forward to reach him. Kid Flash got in her way, ramming her into the wall.

She struggled to her feet, wincing a little as she looked between Tim and Bart. And she grinned. "Buh-bye now," she giggled, waggling her finger. Tim blinked and then he saw something blinking on the ground where she had fallen. She'd stumbled a good deal away from the spot by then, but Bart was still close.

"Kid Flash, move!"

It was too late though. The ground blew, and snow was kicked up everywhere. Tim kicked the Joker in the face to keep him from wiggling away, and when the snow cleared, Bart was laying on the ground coughing profusely. There was a tear in his uniform, and a great puddle of blood, red gleaming in the snow.

"Shit, are you okay?" Tim gasped, nearly dropping his whip. Bart looked at him, and he gave a short laugh, and a thumbs up.

"Accelerated healing!" he laughed, flexing his bicep. There was a thin cut there. "It's like… it's  _crash_."

"Crash?" Tim repeated.

"Crash." Kid Flash winked, and looked around. "I should go after her."

"I'm good here," Tim said, pressing his boot further into the Joker's face. "I've got a bone to pick with this guy."

"You sure?" Kid Flash asked, his eyes widening.

"Go on," Tim said. He jerked his head. "Go get Harley."

"Meet you back here in ten!" Kid Flash cried, his voice carrying as he had already zoomed away.

"Right," Tim mumbled. He gave a yank on his whip, listening to the Joker give a strangled laugh. "Kay, Joker, let's have a chat."

The Joker made a noise that sounded like he was trying to talk, but he was laughing too hard, and there was also whip cutting off his breathing, so that probably didn't help. When Tim had been younger he'd been afraid to use the whip, because… well...  _Please, please, stop, please._  In the back of his mind, he could hear a man commanding him to take off his shirt. He shuddered, the scars on his back tingling. Tim didn't like to use the whip, but it didn't mean he wasn't good at it.

"So," Tim said, pulling his foot from the Joker's face. He walked around, waving his hand in the air, his claws glinting. "God, I hate your guts. Like, I would gladly tear them out right now, but I like to think I'm above that." Sometimes Tim wondered if he was. Sometimes he wished he could let himself stoop to the level of some of the scum in Gotham, but he knew it wasn't him. He couldn't be a killer… could he? After all, Stephanie had started out as a thief. And then she'd been forced into killing. Tim didn't believe she wanted to do it, but he did believe that she believed that there was no way out.

Tim's words really got a reaction out of the Joker. He thought if maybe the man could speak, he'd be spitting some vile joke at him. That made Tim wrap the whip around his hand twice, and half lift up the man, his strangle laughter hitting the frigid winter air. He hit the ground again with a smack and a gurgle, snow flying as his face was half buried in it. And still, he tried to laugh.

"You're disgusting," Tim spat. "What you did to Blue Jay is disgusting. See, the world is rotten enough without people like  _you_ —" Tim gripped his whip with both hands and tugged hard, yanking the Joker up and whirling him around, watching him sail through the air like a kite, and smack against the wall of a brick building. "You take something so  _good_ , and then you have to maim it! No one can ever just be a good person, because when they do, people like you punish them for it!"  _Barbara and Jason, you crippled them both, you son of a bitch_. At least Jason would walk again. Barbara… Tim was thankful she was at peace with her disability. Or else he might have really gone for the kill, and used his claws for a bit of disembowelment.

He watched the Joker go limp, his laughter dying. For a moment, Tim's heart felt like it stopped. His stomach turned icy as the ground below, and he tilted his head. He gave the whip a little flick, and it unwound from the man's neck. Tim stared through the dimness, his eyes landing on the very obvious line that had formed around the Joker's neck. For a second, Tim felt sick. He didn't want to get near enough to check a pulse.

The Joker's eyes snapped open, and Tim jumped back, drawing back his whip. But something exploded between them, and the whipping winter wind made the wisp of vapor smack him right in the face. Tim gasped, and he dropped his whip, clamping his hands over his nose and mouth. It was too late though. He squeezed his eyes shut, feel his eyes begin to water as a laugh built up in his chest.  _Shit, shit, no, please no, not now, I can't_ —

Tim toppled over sideways, his body convulsing as a squirming laugh ripped out of his chest, acidic on his tongue. He winced at the feeling, and he felt the grin on his mouth, and it felt horrible. He rolled, and snow filled his mouth, wet and cold and stinging as he coughed and laughed and laughed and laughed, squirming and tearing at his own throat with silver claws. He stared with teary eyes as the Joker stood above him, leaning over Tim's writhing body.

"Tut tut!" The Joker cackled, waggling a finger in Tim's face. "Don't you worry, big boy, it'll wear off. If you're lucky, you'll be dead by then! I mean, ten minutes…" Tim's laughed was choking him, and he felt his goggles being pushed up. Tears ran freely down his cheeks, and he glared at the Joker, but he just couldn't stop laughing. His eyes widened as the Joker slipped a finger around the zipper at Tim's throat, which was a little bloody from the scratching. And he pulled the zipper down, his crazed eyes glittering as he twirled the knife between his fingers. "Well, there's a lot I can do in ten minutes."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, his laughter the only thing he could hear. What he felt, though, was agonizing.


	18. The Anxious Spoiler

**{the anxious spoiler}**

_-The savage, in whom is embodied the free man, is nearly as restless in a palace as in a prison-_

She was going insane from the boredom. No, really. Oracle wouldn't let her touch  _anything_ , and it was so annoying, she couldn't stand it! Stephanie just paced around at first, trying to figure out what she was doing. The perfect scenario for this to end.  _Me, free and happy. But that won't happen_. And thus, she needed the Ghost. Alive. Unharmed. Shit, she was so over her head. And the thing was, she felt as though she was at her wit's end.  _If I get arrested, will I still be killed?_

"Can you not?"

Stephanie looked at Jason Todd, who was sporting a lovely wheelchair. The same exact one as Oracle had, actually. Sleek, light looking, not bulky at all. There were no handles though, which struck Stephanie as interesting, but she never commented. Oracle seemed like a really cool person. However, she seemed to want to pretend that Stephanie didn't exist. Like that was new to her, or something.

"What?" Steph asked, throwing out her arms defensively. "I'm not doing anything."

"Your walking is making my headache worse." Jason's eyes bore into hers, and she saw that they were a delightfully icy shade of green. "Stop it. Now. Uh, please."

She stared at him for a moment, surprised. He was rubbing his temples, and she looked around curiously. The place was deserted though. Oracle had sent everyone out to pick up the slack, because apparently Batman wasn't around? It really made no sense to her, but she was only there for Ghost. And maybe for Catlad. But mostly for Ghost.

Steph wandered over to Jason's side, and he looked at her, and groaned. She smiled, leaning backwards against one of Oracle's desks. "So," she said conversationally. "You're Jason Todd, huh?"

"That's what it says on the target taped to my back," Jason said, placing his elbow on his armrest, and then resting his cheek against his knuckles. "The glamorous life of Jason Todd. One day just minding my own business, trying to survive high school, next day I wake up from a four year coma. And I'm twenty now. I'm fucking twenty years old. I don't feel like a twenty year old, okay, I feel like I'm supposed to take the SATs next Saturday."

"You missed the SATs?" Stephanie asked curiously. "Wow. Lucky. I mean, I never got to go to college, but I did take that stupid test."

"Was it as horrible as everyone says?" Jason asked, sounding disinterested.

"Worse."

"Well, fuck," Jason said, clapping his armrests. "Thank you, Joker, for saving me from that torture."

Stephanie burst into laughter, which caused Oracle to glance back at them. "So what are you going to do now?" Stephanie asked, watching him curiously. "Like, are you going to try to go back to school?"

Jason looked up at her, his eyes narrowing. "Would you?" he asked with a scoff.

"Well, with the proper motivation." She grinned and poked his cheek. "Come on, don't be a bum. What did you want to be when you grew up?"

"Uh," Jason said, tilting his head back. "That's a really great question. It changed a lot when I was younger, and then when I was about… ten, or so, I just wanted to be _something_." That caused Stephanie to feel a strange sense of pity for him, and she stared down at the top of his head. He looked up at her, and he shrugged. "How about you? Did you ever think you'd end up being an assassin?"

"Ha," she snorted. "Ha ha! As if. Well, when I was like, five I wanted to be Superman." Stephanie gave a long, melodramatic sigh, and she shook her head sadly. "As you can see by the boobs and total lack of bulging muscles, that didn't work out. But uh, I guess I wanted to be a doctor for awhile. Like a children's doctor, where the entire place is really colorful and there's toys in the office and the waiting room, and pretty murals." Stephanie smiled fondly, and she shrugged. "My daddy didn't really like that idea. Thought I'd be a better thief."

"That sucks," Jason said. Then he frowned, and looked up at her. "Hey, who was your dad?"

"Oh." She scratched her head, and gave a sheepish laugh. "Uh, Cluemaster. He was really shitty."

"Shit!" Jason straightened up to get a better look at her face. "Shit, you're Kid Clue!"

"Oh my god," Stephanie said, clasping her head in disbelief. "Ew, you've  _heard_  of me! That means you probably saw my dorky-ass outfit!"

"That thing was horrible," Jason laughed. He shook his head, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Like, that was really awful, why did you go along with wearing that prison jumpsuit?"

"Uh, because my dad would have been an ass and beaten me half to Blüdhaven if I didn't." She saw Jason's expression, and she shook her head. "He's rotting in jail right now, so no worries. Totally got what he deserved."

"I hope you beat the shit out of him first," Jason growled, sinking low into his seat.

"Uh, Batman did." Stephanie smiled a little at the memory. "And from that day on, Batman rose like, two steps on my favorite hero scale. Still behind Wonder Woman and Superman though."

Jason barked a laugh, and then it seemed he couldn't stop. He clasped her arm, giving her a gentle shove. "Oh my god, I like you," Jason said, still chuckling. "Babs, I like her! We should keep her."

"Not an option, Jay," Oracle said.

He looked up at Stephanie, and shrugged. "Worth a try."

"Okay," Oracle said, rolling toward them. "I've got info on the blood sample and knives, but not so much the kunai. Our little ghost doesn't seem to exist, as far as my data goes."

"Well," Jason said, staring at her blankly. "He's a ghost."

"Not funny." Oracle held up one of the knives that Stephanie had nearly stolen from Tim. It was sleek and beautiful and  _old_. It looked like it belonged in a museum somewhere. "So, here is a weird little weapon. Wouldn't use it to kill, more like hang it up on my wall. I did some digging, and the steel on this thing has been reinforced with some chemical that I can't trace."

"So it's hard as like, the David's balls, is what you're saying?" Jason asked, taking the knife in his hand. He spun it, and tilted his head. "Sweet."

"Not what I'd compare it to, but sure." Oracle adjusted her glasses, and pointed to the inlaid owl near the hilt of the blade, which appeared to be gilded. "This is gold. I'd date it back a few centuries. I tried to find get some particles off it, maybe get some recognition on where it came from. Nothing. This thing has been wiped clean so many times, I'm surprised the metal hasn't eroded."

"So, you found nothing?" Jason offered. Oracle looked at him with an expression that was so sharp, Steph wasn't surprised when Jason merely leaned back in his seat and drummed his fingers against his armrests.

"I ended up figuring out where the gold came from." Oracle shrugged. "I'll spare you the details, since I know you hate them. The gold is newer than the knives, and was replaced about… two centuries ago. The knives are from four centuries ago."

"That sounds jolly," Jason said. "And by jolly, I mean awful. Okay, so whose knife is it?"

Steph was staring at the owl, and she frowned as she found herself in thought. Oracle sighed, and shook her head. "I have a theory, but you'll think I'm crazy."

"The Court of Owls?" Steph offered. Jason and Oracle looked at her sharply, and Oracle studied her for a few moments before nodding.

"That is precisely what I was thinking." She pushed her hair back, sighing softly. "The Court of Owls legend has been around as long as Gotham. Who knows, it could have existed."

"Back the fuck up," Jason said, raising his hands into the air. "You think a  _nursery rhyme_  is out to get me?"

"Oh, please, weirder things have wanted to kill you," Oracle said. She rolled her eyes, and Jason glared at her, but said nothing. "I got a match on the blood sample too. Except, you know, can't be simple." She held up a file, and Jason took it. Stephanie leaned over his shoulder to read the contents. There was a picture of a tiny boy with a skinny face and skinny shoulders, his eyes big and bright and the bluer than the sky. He wore a giant grin, toothy and excited as if he was trying to contain a shout of delight.

"Oh my gosh," Steph cooed, leaning over. "I want to take him home, he's adorable!"

"He's dead," Jason said. Stephanie slumped, scowling a bit to herself. Of course he was. Jason looked up at Oracle, and he looked puzzled. "The guy who attacked us was an adult. What's this kid— oh."

"Oh?" Stephanie blinked. "What oh?"

"Oh," Oracle said, gingerly pressing her knuckles to her lips. "His death was faked. He must have been kidnapped from the circus when he was a child. Raised to be a killer." Oracle took the file back, and she stared at it for a few moments. "Richard Grayson. An Acrobat from Haly's Circus. Do you remember when that used to come to town?"

"No," Jason said. "I never had money for the circus."

"Me either," Stephanie said glumly.

"God," Oracle muttered, pinching her nose beneath her glasses. "Someone should really give you— both of you— a real childhood."

"Take us to the circus," Jason said, smirking down at the woman. "I mean, as long as there's not clowns."

"Maybe someday, Jason," she said, smiling a bit as she looked back down at the file. "It says here he and his family died sixteen years ago. He should be about twenty five now."

"Poor kid," Steph said.

"Poor kid grew up," Oracle said, snapping the file shut. "Now he's lethal and after Jason. And we're going to take him down."

"And find Ghost," Steph said.

"Yes," Oracle said, nodding. "And find Ghost."

"Maybe they're working together," Jason said, leaning on his hand with a bored expression. "Ever think of that?"

"Well… it's a possibility, but—"

A streak of yellow slid through the room, skidding to a stop before them. Kid Flash was standing hunched over, his eyes big and terrified. He was clutching something to his chest, some kind of thin black rope. He looked between the three of them, and Stephanie noticed how pale he appeared. His face was ashen, and his lips were trembling.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, looking on the verge of tears. "I'm so sorry, I left him, and I knew it was a bad idea I could  _feel_ that it was a bad idea, but I had to run after Harley, and then when I came back he was gone, and there was blood everywhere, and I'm so sorry!" He bowed his head, jerking his arms out. In a twisted bundle, there was a black whip. Stephanie stared at it blankly.

"What?" Jason asked flatly as Oracle took the whip. She looked up at Kid Flash, and her face suddenly became hard, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"What happened to Tim?" she asked, her voice sharp, urgent, frightened.

"The Joker." Bart took a deep breath, pulling his yellow cowl back, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. "The Joker got him."


	19. The Sightless Ghost

**{the sightless ghost}**

  
_-Blindness is a cavern, to which reaches the_ _deep harmony of the Eternal-_   


He felt utterly ridiculous. As night descended upon Gotham, night claimed Damian's vision. He was left to step blindly and nearly stumble, his body feeling numb with cold and the wind casting his senses in all directions. He simply did not know where to go. If it had been warm then Damian would have navigated fine with just his senses of feeling and hearing, but of course not. Nothing could be so simple.

In the end, Talon pulled him by the hand, leading him as if he were a delicate child into what Damian could only assume was some sort of safe house.

"Watch your step," Talon murmured, his voice very soft. Damian gripped the man's hand tightly, feeling awkward and ashamed. "Feel for Dog, he's next to you."

Damian reached into the darkness beside him, and he was reassured by Dog's soft, smooth fur. It felt healthy, and warm, and Damian wondered what Dog's home was like. He seemed to wander out quite a bit, and that troubled him for reasons he could not explain. So he simply let Talon and Dog lead him into a large, gaping black space.

"Where are we?" Damian asked, afraid to let go of either of his anchors to the world of the seeing.

"Warehome," Talon said, leading Damian downward gently. Damian felt around blindly, and he sat on the ground, something soft resting beneath him. Damian moved his hands, and they brushed against icy cement, and them something cushy. Pillows. "If I know a mission will take me longer than a night, I come here. It doesn't happen very often, but… it's all I have."

"It is better than what I could ask for," Damian said, reaching out and feeling for Dog. "Dog, to me." The beast came nose first, and Damian stifled a giggle as the beast ran its tongue across his fingers. "Good boy."

"You…" Talon sounded unsure as he spoke. His voice was very rough, as if he had not used it in a very long time. "You're blind?"

"No," Damian snapped, his shoulders tensing. "I merely have very poor eyesight! It is too cold for me to… to sense anything, and so I am at a loss. In a sense, right now I am blind. But not permanently."

"Oh." Talon paused, and Damian sighed, rubbing Dog's head as he tried to think. He needed a strategy. He needed to find Todd, but he also needed a way to kill Talon. That, he supposed, could wait a little while. Todd came first. "Why don't you talk off those glasses? It might help."

"No!" Damian squeaked, scrambling backwards, pressing his hand to the glasses to be sure they were still there. "No, no, no! Absolutely not!"

"No, shh," Talon gasped. "Shh, please come back, I didn't mean anything by it."

"My glasses stay on!"

"Yes, Ghost, yes. Please come back." He sounded sad and small then, like an abandoned child. Damian stared into the darkness for a moment, before he began to crawl forward, his hands extended. He felt like a fool, and his cheeks were burning from embarrassment. He felt Talon's hands grasp his arms, but just to be sure, Damian raised his hands to the man's face, feeling his lips and his nose and his eyes and his forehead.

"My glasses are for protection," Damian said quietly. He dropped his hands back to his sides, but Talon was still clutching them, as if he was the blind one. "It would be wrong to take them off."

"I won't make you," Talon whispered. "What do they protect you from?"

 _They protect you, you fool_ , Damian thought, feeling shaky. "My eyes are very sensitive," he said quietly.

"So is your skin, I'd imagine," Talon said, his voice equally quiet.

"What?" Damian shoved his arms away. "How do you know that? Who told you?"

"No one!" Talon sounded frantic. "I'm sorry, I didn't… I just assumed. It's from your albinism, isn't it?"

"My… what?" He was speaking nonsense now, but Damian couldn't leave. He couldn't see anything, after all.

"Oh god," Talon breathed. "Ghost… who are your parents? Are they assassins too?"

"My mother was," Damian said, pulling his knees up to his chest, hugging them for warmth. At first, he was reluctant to speak to Talon, but then Damian realized. Dead men told no secrets. Everything Damian told Talon would die with him. And so, Damian was not reluctant to tell him some things. "My father… is not."

"He's alive?"

"Yes." Damian sighed, running his fingers across Dog's fur. He stared into the abyss that seemed to own his sight, and he closed his unseeing eyes. "I have never met him, though."

"Why is that?" Talon asked softly.

"Because he does not know I exist."

There was silence. It was a terrible silence, the kind that crept under your skin and gnawed at your nerves until you felt ready to rip all your skin off and burn yourself alive. Damian took deep breaths of the thin winter air, feeling it bite against his flushed cheeks. He felt angry tears prickling his eyes, tears of shame, tears of sadness. A tear froze on his cheek, and he turned his face away when he felt gloved fingers wipe it away.

"I don't need your pity," Damian whispered, resting his chin on his knees. "I do not  _want_  it."

"I don't pity you, Ghost," Talon said in a kind voice. "I just want to know you."

" _Why_?" Damian scrubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses, and he hear his voice break miserably, hitching in his throat. "I'm nothing. I'm no one. I'm just a monster, a ghost, why should you care?"

The silence was back, and it burrowed beneath his skin, biting at him with pincers and claws, and he shook in terror and confusion, and he shook with anger and loss. Damian blinked as he felt Talon's gloved hands fall against his hair, and then cup his cheeks, raising his head high. If Damian had to guess, their eyes were about level. And they were staring at each other. Of course, everything was black, so Damian didn't know.

"You…" Talon said, his voice a wisp of broken breath and sadness. "You are the last person I will ever meet. And you are the first friend I have had in sixteen years. How could I  _not_  want to know you?"

Damian felt a chill run down his spine. He felt shaky and shocked, because Talon was touching him and it was strange, because no one ever really touched him before, not so gingerly, as if he was about to disappear at any moment. There was a shock to this revelation as Damian felt blindly for Talon's hands, placing his over them. He wanted to kick and scream and pretend none of this was happening, but it was, and he could do nothing about it. For the first time ever, someone was touching him, and he was letting them, and there was no hint of revulsion.

It felt warm, and Damian realized it was because another hot tear had frozen against his cheek. Talon wiped that one away too.  _You were just as lonely as I was_ , Damian thought, biting his tongue to keep himself from weeping.

"I'm not your friend," Damian said quietly.

"If that's what you want." Damian pulled Talon's hands down, but he didn't let go. He didn't think he could let go if he tried. "Do you want to talk to me about your home?"

Damian exhaled sharply. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. The feeling of the world was utterly barren, and life seemed to be sucked away from everything. "I have a room," Damian said, feeling bitter and irritated. "Grandfather doesn't let me out of it. As in, not ever, really. A few times I was allowed to train outside. But not often."

"Is your grandfather the one who raised you?"

Damian nodded, and in his mind his vision swarmed with thoughts of green eyes and cold gazes. "Yes," Damian said. "He is merciful. He could have done away with me when I was a baby, but he thought better of it and kept me. I am still his heir, as well."

"Sounds like you're a little prince," Talon said, sounding amused.

"No, not quite."

"Ghost… it was joke, I… oh, nevermind." Talon sighed. "So… your father. Have you ever thought… about maybe going to meet him? Telling him?"

"Of course I have," Damian said, gritting his teeth. "I have dreamed of my father all my life. And my mother as well. But those are stupid dreams for a stupid child, and I know better. Father could never accept me."

"Why is that?"

Damian took a deep breath, shaking so badly his body began to ache. He was crying more now, and he could feel the tears, and he stared ahead of him into the darkness. _Because… look at me_ , he wanted to say.  _Look at how weak and horrible I am!_

"Because," Damian hissed, "of Jason Todd." Admitting that was awful. It felt like a sword through his abdomen.  _Father already has a son. How could he love me? He couldn't. Love isn't for me, it doesn't belong to a monster, it belongs in the stars._

"What?" Talon sounded confused, and Damian heard his teeth cracking against each other. "What does Jason Todd have to do with this?"

Damian pulled his hands back to him, and he scrubbed viciously at his cheeks until they felt raw. "Everything," Damian whispered. "Everything…"

For a few moments, it seemed as though the horrible silence was returning. But then Talon got it.

"Damian…" he said quietly. "Is your father… Bruce Wayne?"

Damian stared into nothing, and he let himself be consumed by it. He felt the abyss digging at his soul, pulling at the threads of his mind and snapping them one by one. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and he felt himself tremble. The world felt like it was loose. Perhaps it was. Perhaps everything was going to hell, and that was his fault. Perhaps—

Damian felt a pair of arms wrap around him, and squeeze him close. The warmth was the most appreciated thing in the world, but the shock of it made him shove Talon away.

"What are you doing?" he gasped, falling backwards into a pillow.

"Hugging you." Talon sounded surprised. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Well, you did!" He wiped at his tears, and he scowled at nothing. And then he began to feel cold again. He closed his eyes, and told himself that it didn't matter. Even if it did. A lot. "I… would not mind another… hug… though."

Talon obliged. They stayed like this for a very long time, and as Damian began to warm up, he began to feel better. His tears stopped, and the silence wasn't creeping, and he was even beginning to regain some of his senses. Damian wondered if maybe it was dawn yet, but he knew better. Dawn was well away.

"Talon," he whispered, his forehead resting against the older assassin's chest. "Were you always Talon?"

"No," Talon said, his voice very quiet. "There were many Talons before me. I am the newest piece in a matched set. When they get bored of me, they will lock me away with the others, and I'll be asleep. Forever. Death would be better. At least then I'd have my family."

"Family?" Damian asked, curious without meaning to be. It was only fair.  _After all_ , Damian thought.  _No one will ever hear this again_.

"My mom and dad," Talon said. "They were acrobats in a circus. Like me. They died when the Court chose me. I couldn't have any attachment to the outside world."

"So… you have a name," Damian said.

He felt Talon's chest rumble, and that was surprising. The sound of broken laughter was even more alarming. "It's Dick. My name. It's Dick Grayson."

Damian felt drowsy as he spoke. "Grayson," he murmured, his eyelids drooping.

"Is Ghost your name?" Grayson asked.

"No," he replied, closing his eyes and curling against Grayson's chest. "It's… Damian."

He fell asleep beside Grayson, snuggling in his arms for warmth. They both had their heads supported against Dog, who simply wouldn't leave them.

He awoke to darkness, and Grayson's frantic words. He was shaken into lucidity, and he bolted up straight, blinking into the void. He could hear Dog growling, and he could feel Grayson clutching him hard, and that startled him. For a second, he'd forgotten where he was, and he didn't understand what was gripping him. But now it made sense. And Damian couldn't help but be thankful. He didn't feel quite so numb now, and his senses had half returned to him.

"Damian, we have to go," Grayson said, pulling Damian to his feet. He felt a little wobbly, and he blinked at the black shade around him, reaching out to regain his balance. Dog's head bumped against his fingers, and he felt a little relieved. When he looked around, he saw something glowing in the blackness, a sharp, icy draft moving in from somewhere in the dark. Damian blinked at it, and saw faint red lights flashing fast.

"What is that?" he asked faintly, stumbling forward. He hissed as Grayson scooped him up, and he fought at him stubbornly. "I do not need to be carried! Grayson, let me go!"

As he squirmed, Grayson hushed him, and Damian fought blindly and weakly, uncertain of what to do. If he could see, he would have kicked and fought harder, but Damian didn't know what to do or where to go. So Grayson carried him away, and Damian felt the cold whip of the wind outside as they broke into the night, something crunching beneath Grayson's feet. Damian gritted his teeth and pushed at Grayson's face, feeling at it for a moment before slapping him.

"Let me down, Grayson, or I'll hasten our deal!"

"Shh," Grayson hissed. Damian felt the wind slapping against his face, and heard ice and snow crunch below them. Grayson was running. Damian didn't understand why until a great sputter hissed into the night, and then several bangs. Damian's eyes widened as the world around him lit up in a plume of red, and he saw the shadows of Grayson's face as he dropped to his knees, shielding Damian's body with his own.

"What…?" Damian breathed, poking his head out from behind Grayson's shoulder. There was smoke blooming into the sky, and he could smell ash. He saw red fluttering in the darkness, and he was thankful for the sight, but confused as to how it had gotten there.

"Bomb," Grayson whispered, setting Damian down. It was icier than it had been before, and Damian's feet sunk into the ground. He grimaced, pulling his shoes up and kicking at the mushy snow.

"Bomb," Damian repeated, frowning a bit. Then he felt a pang of panic, and he looked around wildly, despite the fact he was still more or less sightless. "Dog!"

"He's right here." The beast gave a soft bark, and Damian reached out with both hands, sighing in relief as he felt Dog's ears and cold, wet nose. "Someone threw the bomb in through the window. He ran this way."

"What way?" Damian asked, blinking.

"North." Grayson took Damian's hand. "Come. I want to find this man and return the favor."

Damian perked up at this, letting Grayson pull him through the darkness. The sound of the snow breaking underfoot was so soft now, Damian could barely hear it. "Will we kill him?" Damian asked.

"Maybe. Damian, I know your glasses are… important, but I think you would see better without them. At least in a fight. Just try it."

"I will hurt you," Damian growled, putting enough pressure on the bones of Grayson's hand to make it his arm jerk. "I swear, Grayson, I will hurt you."

"Just be careful," Grayson sighed. "Stay close to Dog."

Damian felt Dog beside him, his large body giving off warmth, and his snuffling nose giving a noise to the silence. In the far distance, Damian could hear sirens. "Grayson, I am not useless—"

Grayson yanked Damian to a stop, and for an angry moment, he had no idea why. And then he heard the laughter. The sharp, eerie sound of someone screaming in rapids strokes of cackles the pierced the night air. It was unsettling, and it made something stir in Damian's stomach. Bile, or worse, and he felt sick and cold and suddenly terrified.

"What is that?" Grayson whispered, dragging Damian forward tentatively.

"A nightmare?" Damian offered, scowling at nothing.

As they walked, the night seemed to get colder. They turned, and Grayson yanked Damian back, pressing a hand to his mouth to muffle any objection. "Well," he murmured. "You were close."

"What?" Damian hissed, listening as Dog made a low growling sound. Damian felt his body tense beside him, and he jumped as he listened to Dog snarl, his body barreling forward. "Dog—!"

He gasped as Grayson let go of his hand, and through the laughter and the whipping wind, he heard snow crunching, and the sound of knives whistling through the air. Damian stood frozen in nothingness, and he could only listen, because that was the only sense of his that was working in the numbness of winter. He heard a grunt, and then a cackle which mingled with the strangled laughs that seemed to be ceaseless. Damian was shaking, confused and blind and feeling utterly hopeless. Grayson's words were prodding at him, hissing in his head.

 _I think you would see better without them_ , Grayson had said. Damian took a deep breath, and he grasped the tinted glasses with shaky hands. He pushed them upward and squinted. The world was… still relatively dark. But, not quite as dark as it had been before. It was more like a dim, gray, hazy blur of moving figures. The ground was fuzzy and white, and there were two blobs of moving across the grayish haze.

 _Well,_  Damian thought, pushing his glasses onto his forehead.  _That will do_. He slid his katana out of its scabbard, and he bolted forward, the world focusing as he got closer to the fight. There was a twitching form on the ground, and the laughter was erupting from it. It sounded weak, though, as if it couldn't form the sounds any longer. Damian looked between the dark blur, which he could only assume was Grayson, as it was dark and moving with a startling sort of grace, and a strangely colorful blob.

Damian's blade sliced through the side of the motley blur, and he slid back, flicking the blood from his sword. Unfortunately, he'd lost his footing on an icy patch, and he'd stumbled for a stomach lurching moment. He felt his glasses slide, and he blinked rapidly as he slammed onto his back, gritting his teeth and pushing himself up straight quickly.

He felt someone bending over him, and for a moment he saw the shadows of Grayson's face. Out of reflex, he dropped his katana and clamped his hands over his eyes. He could hear Dog barking wildly, and the laughter had died into soft rasping noises.

"Grayson, what are you doing?" Damian snapped, squirming away from his touch. "I'm fine! Go kill him!"

"He's gone," Grayson said, grasping Damian's shoulders. "Come on, let's go."

"My glasses," Damians said, the heels of his hand digging into his eyes. "They fell."

The silence was deafening. There was no more laughing, no more struggling, no more growling. Damian was scared of what was happening, what he didn't know was happening. He was scared of the darkness, of the uncertainty, and he was scared that maybe he was weak after all. He couldn't bear to be seen, to see, to not be in control of who and what he was, and he hated it.

"I have them," Grayson said softly. "Move your hands."

Damian was terrified to do so.  _If I look him in the eye_ , he thought wildly,  _will he turn to stone?_  He didn't know, because he'd never done it before. Grandfather had never allowed him to take off the glasses, to look a person in the eye, and because of this he was at a loss. He shook his head, his fingernails digging into his eyelids, and he couldn't tear his hands away.

"Come on, Damian," Grayson whispered, his hand resting on top of Damian's. "It's okay, I have them, just pull your hands away."

"I can't," Damian choked. "I can't do it, I can't…"

Grayson pried his hands away, and Damian squeezed his eyes shut, his face contorting in fear. "There," Grayson said, his fingers brushing Damian's cheeks as he slid the glasses back on. Damian opened his eyes, but he saw nothing. "See, there you go."

Damian said nothing. He pushed Grayson's hands away, and he found himself curling backwards, shrinking into his cloak and into the snow. "Where… where did he go?" Damian asked.

"I don't know." Grayson stood up, and Damian scowled as he took his hand, pulling himself to his feet. "Dog?" Damian listened, but he could not hear the dog any longer. Damian walked forward, reaching out with his free hand as Grayson guided him forward. The chill of the air bit at his face as he moved.

"My sword?" Damian asked.

"Oh. Hold on." Grayson let go for a few moments, and then Damian felt his cloak being pushed aside, the sound of steel being sheathed calming his nerves. "Dog, come here."

Dog did not come. And so Grayson took them to him. The snow cracked and broke beneath their feet, and as they moved, Grayson got tenser. "Oh," he said. He let go of Damian's hand, and Damian stood for a moment, reaching into nothingness. "He's hurt."

"What?" Damian gritted his teeth impatiently. "Who?"

"The boy."

"What boy?" Damian kicked some snow, glowering into the void around him. "Grayson, we should go after the man, not bother ourselves with a boy."

"No," Grayson said. "I know this boy. He was with Todd."

Damian's skin prickled, and he remembered what the trio from the Rabbit Hole had told him about what they'd seen in the park.  _We saw Jason Todd with a boy. They were just walking around, and then they left, and before you ask, we didn't follow so we don't know where they went. Just thought you oughta know_.

"What do we do with him?" Damian asked, feeling Dog's tongue glide across his hand.

Grayson was silent for a few moments, and then Damian heard shuffling, the sound of loose snow shifting. "Come," he said.

"Where?" Damian pressed his hand to Dog's bag, feeling the beast's muscles work as it moved forward.

"Back to the Rabbit Hole. They like to help people, don't they?"


	20. The Mended Bird

**{the mended bird}**

  
_-If you wish to preserve an old thing, human or divine, a code or a dogma, a nobility or a priesthood, never_ _repair anything about it thoroughly, even its outside cover-_   


It was a deep, biting sort of panic, like a serrated knife slicing through skin and bone and muscle, the blade snapping against ligaments and veins and destroying tissue, sharp and cold and cutting. And it settled like a missing limb, a vacant feeling of loss and confusion and fear riling up and releasing in a fashion that sent his head reeling. _The Joker, the Joker, the Joker_ , he thought, sickness churning in his stomach.  _The Joker has Tim. The Joker has Tim_ …

"Okay," Barbara breathed, spinning her chair around to her computer screen. "Okay, let's… be calm. Bart, give me the details on where you were."

"It was near Crime Alley," Bart said, his voice thin. "Uh, there was an explosion there not too long before."

"Got it," she said, already typing away at her holographic keyboard. "The GCPD was just there. I'll send Starfire and Flash on it."

"The Joker's already gone," Jason blurted. He felt cold, and he felt numb, and there was something hollow in his chest. "He already has Tim, Barbara. What the hell are they going to do?"

"Find him," Barbara said, her eyes flashing dangerously behind the light of her glasses. "I'm going to find him."

"Before the Joker does something irreparable?" Jason spat, wheeling himself closer to her. His skin chafed against the wheels, spinning them too fast and sending his hand into a tremble of shock. "Do you think you can do that, Barbara? Really? 'Cause, fuck, it didn't take too long for the Joker to put  _us_ in wheelchairs. For all we know, Tim's a goner already!"

"Jason," Barbara said, her shoulders tense. "Stop."

"No!" He slammed his hand against his armrest, his breath hitching in his throat. "No, no, no,  _no_! Fuck—"

"Jason, stop," Stephanie gasped, taking his arm. He swatted her away, and he looked at Bart. The boy was tiny, and his pale, terrified face was struck with utter horror. There were tears running down his cheeks, and he was shaking his head profusely.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm so sorry, I am so, so, so, so, sososososo sorry, I—"

"Shut  _up_ ," Jason growled. He wheeled his chair around to face the boy, his fingers shaking as he gripped his armrests. "Why the fuck are you so fucking sorry? Because you fucked up?"

"Well," Bart said, wincing. "Yeah, I should have been—"

"No," Jason said, wheeling past him. "Shut the fuck up. It wasn't your fault, it wasn't anyone's fault, just shut up. The only person responsible for this shitstorm is the Joker. And he should pay for it."

"He will," Barbara said. "In jail."

"No," Jason said, glaring at his stump of a leg. "That's not good enough."

"Maybe we should all just…" Stephanie stepped between the three of them, her eyes big and frantic. "We should calm down. We don't even know for sure if the Joker has Tim, we just know that Tim and the Joker fought, and when Kid Flash got back, both of them were gone. Who's to say Tim was kidnapped? Maybe Tim kidnapped the Joker, ever think of that?"

"Why would Tim do that?" Kid Flash asked, his eyes so big and fearful, Jason wanted to punch him. And then maybe punch himself.

"Why did you leave him?" Steph asked, folding her arms across her chest. "I mean, you obviously thought he had control of the situation."

"Well…" Kid Flash sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Yeah. He had the Joker down, but I don't… I don't know. Maybe I panicked. You're right, we should look at the other explanations. Maybe the Joker got away and Tim went after him."

"Tim's not answering his communicator," Barbara said. "But he still has it."

"Well, that's a fucking relief." Jason glared at all of them, feeling stupid and empty and bitter. "So you gonna track that shit, Babs?"

"Already done. Starfire and Flash already on their way there."

"What did you do, email it to their heads?" Jason looked at her, feeling incredulous.

"Don't be silly," Barbara said. "Email is way too slow. I texted it to them."

"Well that…" Jason frowned, and he slumped. "Makes sense, okay, whatever."

The door burst open, and there was a great, booming cry, " _Boo yeah_ , baby!"

It was then that Cyborg came barreling in, a broad grin on his broad face, and he looked so pleased that it was almost jarring. The atmosphere of anger and panic broke apart and faded as they all looked at the machine in his hands.  _Well, shit, that was fast,_  Jason thought, staring at the strange, sleek looking mechanical leg in Cyborg's arms. He was cradling it almost as if it were a child.

"Is that for me?" Jason asked, staring at the prosthetic in wonder. Of course it was for him. He was just in disbelief about it being ready to try out.

"You got it, Blue," Cyborg said, his one human eye glinting just as bright as his mechanical one. "Check it out. This baby's just a prototype, I'll make a sturdier, longer lasting one for full time use later, but sweet little Dea here, she'll be good for your first go."

"Dea." Jason stared up at the man, his eyebrow furrowing. "You named my machine leg."

"I actually was the one who named it," Barbara said, not looking away from her computer. "You're welcome."

"Blue," Stephanie said, staring at Jason. He winced, and shot a look at Cyborg for the slip up. "Wait. Shit. You're  _Blue Jay_!"

"Well," Jason said, scowling at the girl. "That took you way too long. Nice to see you again, Kid Clue, might I say that you have gotten infinitely hotter since our last meeting?"

"You're supposed to be dead," Steph said, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. "Like— oh. Oh my god." She looked around, and her entire body seemed to jolt in shock. "No way. That means that… that  _Bruce Wayne_ —"

"Congrats," Jason said. "Now you know. Can I try on my leg now?"

"Dea," Cyborg corrected. "And yes. Yes you can. Though, gotta warn you, it ain't easy getting used to having a metal leg. And also, it's gonna hurt. A lot. Like, we'll have to go into another room to hook up your nerves to it. Nasty stuff, shouldn't take too long, but it'll hurt. Might want someone else in the room with you. For support, you know."

"I don't need support," Jason said, rolling past Cyborg.  _Unless it's Bruce_ , he thought bitterly. He thought about Tim, and he felt the need to get that goddamn prosthetic on him as fast as humanly possible.  _Then I can fucking defend myself. And my friends_. As Cyborg followed him out, Jason looked up at him, and scowled. "You know that blonde girl is an assassin too, right?"

Cyborg looked down at Jason, and groaned, smacking his head. "Aw, man," he said, his eyes widening. "Why didn't anyone warn me before I let my mouth run?"

Jason didn't know Cyborg all that well. He met him once or twice, but the big guy was pretty welcoming, and he seemed to know what he was doing the majority of the time. "I dunno," Jason said, his arms objecting from the strain of pushing the wheels of his chair. Four years of no activity had deteriorated his muscles. Severely. "We'll figure something out to stop her from blabbing. Wait, what's this about me being dead?"

"Uh," Cyborg said, scratching his nose. "Well, I don't know. Barbara told us you weren't, but to the rest of the world? Blue Jay was killed by the Joker. I think Batman did it to protect you, but Babs refused to tell us anything more than that you were alive. She was pretty shaken up when it happened, but… well, it was bad timing, I think. She was barely in her wheelchair at that point, and she wasn't even thinking about being Oracle yet, y'know?"

"What inspired that, exactly?" Jason stared at his leg, and frowned. "The Oracle thing."

Cyborg shrugged, shutting the door as they entered a bedroom. It didn't look to be occupied, considering how barren the walls and dressers were. It looked empty and inhospitable. "She's never been a passive person," Cyborg said slowly, helping Jason out of the wheelchair. It felt odd to stand, and his one leg wobbled pitifully as Jason clutched Cyborg's arm. He collapsed onto the lonesome twin bed, wiggling his foot and frowning. "I think she just couldn't stand being saddled with a position that uh… disabled her. She's always out to make sure no one underestimates her."

"So she ends up becoming… a computer junkie?" Jason watched Cyborg roll up the cropped end of his pants, baring his stump, which was rather terrible looking in that it was all healed skin, and there was the haunting idea that there should have been something else there. If Jason only glanced at it, an echo of what had once been tricked him. But when he stared at it, the illusion was shattered.

"More like and information hive," Cyborg said, smiling a bit. "She's got dirt on everything and everyone, and if she doesn't have info, she gets it. We're lucky she's on our side, because she could be the most dangerous person out of all of us with all her info. Her programming is great too, even I have trouble with it. Not too much, though." Cyborg winked. "Anyways, so I have to attach a port to your stump to connect it to the tech in Dea. This is the part that is going to hurt. I have to make a  _tiny_  incision, kay?"

"Do whatever the hell you want," Jason said.

Jason didn't know what he had been expecting. But he sure as hell hadn't been anticipating to basically almost be in surgery to get a goddamn base on his stump. And yeah. It fucking hurt. By the time Cyborg was done, Jason was wondering why the fuck he hadn't been drugged before hand, but whatever. There wasn't too much blood, and Jason had been through worse.

"Here ya go," Cyborg said, walking back into the room with a glass of water. Jason was huddled against a wall, staring at the metal ring attached to the inflamed skin. The ruddiness was fading fast, though. Cyborg wasn't a doctor, but he knew how to do this. Jason reached for the glass eagerly, and chugged down the water so fast he nearly choked. "I'm sorry about how hasty the put together was. Trust me, it gets better. On the bright side, now you can test Dea."

Jason stared into his empty glass, and he rested it on his knee. "How long will it take me to be able to walk with it— or her, whatever?"

Cyborg was quiet for a few moments as he held up the prosthetic leg. It was sleek, but now that Jason was closer to it, he saw it was a bit makeshift. Jason couldn't blame Cyborg though. What he'd done in the time he'd done it was mindboggling. There were a few exposed wires here and there, but the paneling over them seemed solid enough, and Cyborg was careful when attaching it. Jason's entire leg hummed when he felt a jolt, the metal on his leg connecting with wires, and he blinked rapidly, containing a gasp.

"It really depends," Cyborg said, taking a step back. Jason sat for a moment, and his entire body felt suddenly very numb. The space where his flesh leg had once acquired felt strange, heavy, tainted. He shrunk into himself, and he wondered if it had been right to want such a hasty replacement for a leg he hadn't really mourned at all. "There's lots of kinks to be worked out, but in the end it's up to you. Robot limbs aren't all that easy to control at first, y'know? But come on, give Dea a wiggle!"

"I'm really getting disturbed by this Dea thing," Jason said, tentatively forcing the prosthetic limb to move up and down. The bulb of the kneecap moved delicately as the machine hummed, and Jason tilted his head. He looked up at Cyborg with big eyes. "So for my next one can I get like, a cannon hidden in my knee?"

Cyborg gave a hearty laugh, and clapped Jason on the shoulder, giving him a playful shove. "I'll try and keep it in mind!"


	21. The Repenting Talon

**{the repenting talon}**

  
_-He who sins_ _against a child, sins against God-_   


It had taken a while to realize that Dick had met the boy before. But his face was familiar, and Dick remembered a party he'd been forced to go to in order to observe Bruce Wayne. Yes, Dick knew this boy.  _Tim_ , he recalled.  _That's his name_. And it was then that Dick knew that there was no going back from his treason. He couldn't be the Talon the Court wanted any longer, and so he had to do his best with what good he was given.

It was why Dick was growing so attached to Ghost.  _Damian_. The boy was small, confused, and desperate. In very many ways, they were the same. But at least the boy had some semblance of hope. Dick had been half dead since the day the Court of Owls had stolen him away. He couldn't help but see some echo of the child he'd once been in the child he watched now. Damian was nothing like Dick Grayson, the circus boy, but he was very much like Dick Grayson post circus. That frightened him. And it drew Dick closer to the boy still.

It had been a very long time since he'd let himself truly care about anyone. I had been even longer since he had anything to protect.

The boy—  _Tim_ — was not in fantastic shape. As far as Dick could tell, his abdomen was torn up, and there was a shallow stab wound near his stomach. Dick could see where he'd cut the boy's cheek earlier in the day, and he wondered how luck and chance had dumped them together once again. Tim was unconscious, as he'd passed out very soon after Dick had knelt by his side. It was a little worrisome, but Dick figured they would handle it.

Damian was walking very slowly. He was letting Dog lead him, as Dick was holding Tim and could not hold his hand because of it. Dick knew his attachment to Damian would become a problem soon if they did not accomplish their goal. In truth, he didn't know why he was latching onto the boy so desperately. Maybe he just hoped that this last bit of humanity he'd found would be kept safe if directed at a child.

Dick planned to die. It would be peace, and he wanted it desperately, but he was afraid for Damian. Could he survive the Court's wrath?  _He's the true son of Bruce Wayne_ , Dick thought, staring at the white haired boy's back.  _The Court will want him, dead or alive_. Dick knew that they were headed on a suicide mission. And killing Jason Todd was not worth it. But there was nothing that could be done about it.

Dog was the one to paw at the door to the Rabbit Hole. Dick had not expected to ever come back to the place at all, let alone so soon. The door opened, and a groggy-eyed Colin appeared. He gave the four of them a long, blank stare, and he merely moved away from the door, wandering back into the room. Dick let Damian and Dog enter first, and then he went, holding Tim gingerly in his arms.

"Do you never sleep?" Damian asked, sounding simultaneously bored and disappointed.

"Do you ever leave?" Artemis snapped back, sitting up. She was sitting on the floor near the fire pit with the younger girl beside her. The dark skinned child sat up, and it became apparent that she  _had_  been sleeping. They were both on a long flannel blanket that stretched across the cement floor, and beside Artemis were a bow and an empty quiver. Strewn across the blanket in front of her were numerous arrows, which she appeared to be sorting.

"It was not my choice to return." Damian sniffed. "Talon wishes for your assistance."

"Who's that?" the young girl mumbled, rubbing her eyes and pointing at Tim.

"Probably another assassin," Artemis said, glowering at them.

"No." Dick shook his head, carrying Tim to the couch and resting him there. The boy was bleeding profusely, and his head was lolling. Dick could hear him murmuring breathlessly, his eyes flickering fast behind his lids.  _Nightmare_ , Dick thought. "He's a boy who needs help. You help people… don't you?"

Artemis's eyes widened. She looked at the young girl, who merely nodded fast, jumping to her feet. Colin appeared in front of Tim with a first aid kit in hand. "Oh, wow," Colin breathed. "Who did this?"

"A man," Dick said, pressing his lips together. No, Dick knew the threat, didn't he? Vaguely, he'd seen him in news headlines fed to him when younger. "The Joker."

"The Joker," Artemis said, her voice lowering incredulously. She closed her eyes, and she shook her head. "That's it, guys, I think we've hit rock bottom. We're going to die."

"Stop being so dramatic," the young girl said, wandering to Colin's side. "You're the one who said that we have to take risks if we want to help anyone."

"I didn't mean taking risks that might land us in the  _Joker's_  lap!" Artemis gathered up her arrows and stuck them back in the quiver. "Sorry for not wanting to be put to death in a cruel and unusual way."

"Hey, Artemis, can I use one of your arrows?" Colin asked, not looking up from Tim's chest. The small boy, admirably, had already cleaned up as much blood as he could, and was now threading a needle.

Artemis tossed an arrow over the fire, which the younger girl caught, and then gave to Colin. "Knock yourself out," Artemis said, rising to her feet. "In the mean time, let's talk."

"I would, but I fear for my intelligence when I speak with you," Damian said. Dick stared at him for a moment, his mouth opening to reprimand him. Artemis didn't give him the chance.

"Aw," Artemis said, her eyes narrowing at the white haired boy. "Your insults are so cute. But seriously. I'm fed up with this crap. We've been pretty generous to you two, considering how you obviously have plans to murder someone, and we don't tolerate that sort of thing here. And don't bring up my dad, because I'll put an arrow through your eye, Talon, so help me."

"I wasn't going to," Dick said softly. He looked at Damian, and almost said his name. But he decided against it. "Ghost, she's right. We owe them."

"I haven't any money."

"Ha ha," Artemis said, rolling her eyes. "Hilarious."

Damian frowned, and looked up at Dick. Dick rested a hand on the boy's head, and he shook his own. "He wasn't joking," Dick told the little blonde girl. He thought about when he had almost killed her once. He wondered if she was thinking about it too.

"Why am I not surprised?" She raised her hands into the air, and dropped them against her thighs. "But seriously, you two. You owe us for not turning you in."

"What do you want from us?" Dick asked, pulling Damian carefully closer to him. The small boy shrugged him off, but stuck close all the same.

Artemis straightened up, and she looked between the two of them. "I want you to help us," Artemis said. Her dark gray eyes glittered in the dim light of the lanterns around them, and the fire. The room was still very cold, and Dick imagined it was because of the window he'd smashed. "Help us help people."

"That is the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard in my entire life," Damian declared.

"Have you heard yourself speak?" Artemis retorted.

"Enough," Dick said, placing his hand between them. He pushed Damian behind him, and he nodded to the girl. "I can't help you. I'm sorry, but I know how much danger I'm putting all of you in by interacting with you. I'm sure you remember what I'm supposed to do with people who see me."

She stared at him coldly, and she turned away, stalking toward her bow. She scooped it up, and swung her quiver over her shoulder, notching an arrow and drawing the string to her cheek as she glared at Dick with disgust gleaming in her eyes. The young girl had spun around when she heard the string go taut, and she shrieked, "Artemis!"

"Then quit!" Artemis spat. "Quit, be a hero! Don't go back to them. They won't know."

"You don't understand," Dick said.

"Artemis, stop!" the young girl cried, rushing to Artemis's side. "This isn't how we handle things!"

"It's not like he can die," Artemis said, grimacing as she glared. "A few arrows won't hurt him."

"Um, yes, actually," Dick said, watching her with a frown. "They will."

"Not much, though." She tilted her head. "You're not even human, are you? Just some monster."

"Shut up!" Dick looked down at Damian in surprise. The boy was shaking in fury, his lips drawn back in a snarl. He was startled, and he felt a strange rush of warmth as he realized that the boy was defending him. It was, admittedly, one of the kindest gestures he'd received in a very long time. "I'll help you with your idiotic quest. Just relieve us of your relentless screeching."

Artemis stared at him for a few moments, before she lowed her bow.

Dick held up his hands as he moved closer to Colin, pulling off his mask and his belt of knives and resting them on the ground. He moved closer to the redhead boy, and Tim, who was still a mystery to him.  _I met him once, and then I tried to kill him, and now I'm saving him_ , Dick thought, watching Colin work with a determined silence. His hands were bright red and slick, but somehow he didn't care.

"You're very good at this," Dick said, his eyes following the movements of the small boy's hands. He'd never had to sew up his wounds before. They always closed for him, so he'd never learned the skill of first aid. Colin seemed to be natural at it.

"I mend things for the nuns sometimes," Colin said, shrugging. He thredded Tim's skin back together carefully, and Dick watched the boy's head loll, his lips moving slowly. "Also, you wouldn't believe how many times I've had to do this for Artemis."

"Shut up, Colin," the blonde girl said grumpily.

"Talon," the younger girl with big brown eyes said. "Why did you bring him to us?"

"You help people," Dick said blinking down at her. He felt Damian shuffle closer to his side, Dog at his heels. "He needed help."

"But you helped him," the girl said, a big smile forming on her lips. "You do want to help people, don't you?"

"He has information about Jason Todd," Damian said simply.

"So?" The girl bounced on her feet, and she grinned broader. "You could have just taken him somewhere else and beat him till he talked, but you didn't, you came here because you knew we'd take care of him. You two really are good people, aren't you?"

The trickle of warmth that spread through Dick as the girl reached out and grasped his hand was frightening and strange and wonderful. And then Damian shoved the girl back, scowling at her as she stared. Dick placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, but Damian merely shrugged it off.

"You're deluding yourself," Damian sneered. "We both are only seeking one thing, and that is death. Understand that, you stupid little fool."

"It doesn't have to be like that," the girl said. She was staring at Damian desperately, and Dick felt sorry for her. He wanted to pat her head, but he decided against it. "It's so obvious that you two don't want to do this, so why are you doing it? It's okay to be good!"

Damian was shaking, and Dick watched him with awe. His mouth was opening and closing, but he didn't seem to have a retort. He didn't seem to know what to do at all. And Dick had to wonder. Perhaps the little girl was right. Was it possible for them to be good? It was all that Dick ever wanted, to stop the horror he wrought and bring back some peace into the world. To have some hope. And Damian… Dick could imagine how his childhood must have been. Lonely. Dick could empathize, and it was another thing that had him drawing himself closer to the child.  _Maybe he'd never had any hope before_ , Dick thought, watching the boy take a few steps back, looking confused and horrified as he seemed to digest the girl's words.  _Like me_.

"It's not that simple," Dick said sadly.

"It is if you try," the girl insisted. "The world always needs heroes. Artemis is right about that. And I think you two could be great heroes."

It was too late for Dick. He'd gone too far. The Court would never allow such weakness to continue. But what she was saying, he wanted it. More than anything else in the world he wanted to help people _. I'm dead already_ , Dick thought. He turned to stare at Damian, his heart pounding in his ears.  _But he still has a chance to be what I can never be_.

"Damian," he said softly. The boy looked at him sharply, and he took another fast step back. "You should listen to her."

"No." Damian shook his head profusely. "No, it won't work."

"It will." Dick reached for the child, and he grasped his shoulder. He bent down on his knees so they were eyelevel. The boy shrunk back, looking horror-stricken and uncertain. "You have a chance that I don't. You have Bruce Wayne. You have family, and you have hope. Don't waste your ticket to freedom."

"I can't," Damian said, shaking his head. "You don't understand. You're just a fool, you couldn't possibly understand!"

"Then explain," Dick said, taking both his shoulders and edging closer. "Why? What's stopping you from going to him and explaining who you are?"

Dick could feel Damian go tense with rage and confusion, and it worried him. "Have you  _seen_  me?" Damian pushed Dick back, shoving him hard in the chest. He was trembling, and Dick didn't know why. "I can't meet him. He can't know what a monster I am!"

"You're not a monster," Dick said softly. He gave Damian a wane smile, offering the boy a hand. "I've seen monsters."  _I am one_. "You're just a little boy who was raised to be something that you're not. Take it from someone who knows."

"He'll hate me," Damian whispered. "I can't, he'll  _hate_  me."

"Don't become me, Damian," Dick said, placing his hand on the boy's pale cheek, he flinched, but did nothing to push him away. "Let yourself live."

Dick watched as streaks of tears rolled down the child's cheeks, and he looked smaller then, like a boy who had lost five years on his life. And Dick wished he could turn back time, wished he had the chance that Damian had, because then maybe life would feel real, and not a constant flow of motions and perfunctory tasks. Before this mission had turned awry, he could barely remember what it was like to feel something.

Dick did something he instantly regretted. He slid Damian's glasses from his face, and for a fleeting moment he saw red eyes flashing wide. Dick dropped the glasses in shock as Damian shrieked, stumbling backwards and clamping his hands over his eyes. His limbs tangled together, and Dick hurried to him his mouth falling open as he tried to hush the boy. Damian scrambled away from his touch, toppling sideways and curling up, his hands still over his eyes.

"No!" he gasped, "How— how  _could_  you—?"

"Oh my god," gasped Colin. "What just happened?"

"Talon just took off Ghost's glasses," Artemis said. She sounded as if she was bemused.

"Damian," Dick gasped, reaching for the child. Damian shrieked, and kicked wildly, his feet slamming into Dick's chest and sending him sprawling on his back.  _He's stronger than I give him credit for_ , Dick thought, wincing a bit. Guilt gnawed at his insides, and he bit his lip, sitting up straight and reaching for the boy again. This time Damian smacked him hard, his fist flying out blindly as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"No!" Damian cried, kicking himself upright and twisting wildly as Dick grasped the wrist of the hand that hit him. "No, don't! Don't look! Just get away from me!"

"Don't look?" Dick asked softly, his fingers tightening around the boy's wrist as he tugged helplessly. "Damian, why do you hide your eyes?"

"Stop!" Damian's tears seemed to be ceaseless, and Dick felt awful about it. "Let me go, you— you  _ibn haram_ —!"

Dick took his other wrist and pried it from his eye, and Damian's legs jerked out, kicking and flailing fiercely. He turned his face away, gritting his teeth and giving a wordless screech of frustration. "Let me  _go_!" He yanked at his arms, but Dick was stronger. " _Khalass, fadlak_ —!" His voice broke a little, and Dick watched him struggle and twist, kicking feebly at Dick's chest. " _Idrukni_!"

"What's he saying?" the younger girl squeaked from behind Dick.

He didn't know. The words were foreign to Dick, and he found himself trying to hush the poor boy. "Please calm down," Dick gasped, feeling his heart break for the child. "I'm sorry, please stop screaming, I'm sorry!"

"You don't get it!" Damian's voice was thick, his accent mulling his words. "You just… I can't…"

"You can't…?"

Damian had stopped flailing, and instead he shuddered and slumped. He shook his head, tugging weakly at his arms, his eyes still squeezed tightly shut. "I can't look at you," Damian whispered, sounding terrified. "Grandfather said…"

"Your grandfather." Dick thought he might know what was going on. He released Damian's wrists, and the boy sat for a moment, his entire body quaking in fear and bewilderment. "Why don't you open your eyes?"

"Because," Damian hissed, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. It didn't seem to stop the tears. "You'll turn to stone. That's…" He seemed to fumble over his words, and he gritted his teeth. "T-that's what he said, that's what will happen, that's—"

"Damian," Dick said, feeling horrified himself. "Open your eyes."

"No."

"Yes." Dick rested his fingers against Damian's knuckles, and he dragged the boy's hands downward. Damian let him, and for a moment the only noise in the room was the fire faintly crackling. In the warm yellow light, Damian's round face was stained a soft orange hue. The tears on his cheeks glittered like dew, and for a short moment they sat like this. Dick clutched Damian's hands tightly, and the boy's lips trembled, his eyelids twitching.

When he opened his eyes, he blinked rapidly for a few moments, staring at Dick's face. Dick gave him a weak smile, and he carefully wiped at the boy's tears with the pads of his thumb. Damian's expression was stony, inscrutable. "He lied," Damian said quietly.

Dick smiled wider. "Your eyes are nice," he said, peering at the glittering red hue. They looked like rubies, gleaming from tears. There was a strange and mysterious depth to them, a hidden fortune beneath the crimson hue. "You should really show them more."

"He lied," Damian repeated, snapping his eyes shut. "He  _lied_."

"Well let me be honest," Artemis said, hovering over Dick's shoulder. She held out Damian's glasses, but neither of them made a move to take them. "Your grandpa sounds like an asshole."

"Ghost," the young girl said, stepping up beside Dick. "If your grandpa lied about something like that, who knows what else he lied about."

Damian opened his eyes, and wiped at them with quick fingers. He looked up at Dick, and his expression was oddly devoid of emotion. "So," he said softly. "What do I do, then? Abandon my grandfather because he lied to me?"

"I think that's a pretty good reason." Artemis gave a short shrug. "I mean, telling you something horrible like that? For your entire life? Not worth it. Dump him."

"I told you to run away too," Damian said quietly. "We're not so different, Artemis."

"We're nothing alike," Artemis said, raising her head high. "I'm one of a kind."

"You are a foolish girl," Damian said, his voice tight and his eyes dead. "But… I don't know if I can return now, knowing what I know."

"Did your grandpa tell you you're a monster too?" the younger girl asked, bouncing on her toes. "Ghost, he's a total jerkface! What else did he tell you?"

"He is the one who first called me Ghost," Damian said, rising to his feet. His tears were gone, but the boy seemed strangely empty, as if he'd lost his will in the struggle. Dick wanted to reach out and touch his head, but he didn't think he was welcome. He'd done enough damage. "I never asked why."

"Hey, uh, guys?" Colin asked, sounding frantic. "He's waking up!"

They glanced at each other, and Damian snatched his glasses from Artemis's fingers, moving closer to the beaten couch near the fire pit. Dick followed, pulling off his gloves and tucking them away as Damian unclasped his cloak, tossing it at Colin, who caught it and stared.

"For your hands," Damian said, not looking away from the stirring boy.

Colin's hands were a deeper red than his hair, glistening and wet. "But I just got it all bloody," Colin said, his eyes widening.

"Do I look like I care?"

Tim gave a soft rasp as his eyes peeled open. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments, and he tried to bolt up straight, his big blue eyes flashing with terror. Colin pushed him back, gasping a little bit himself. For a few moments the boy struggled and twitched, his chest smeared red and black all over. His stitches looked ugly and ragged against his pale skin. And then Tim's eyes settled on Dick.

"You!" Tim gasped, his voice hitching. He began to cough, and his body racked as he moved his hand to his mouth, clamping it over his lips.

"Stop!" Colin gasped, pushing at Tim's shoulders. "You're gonna pull your stitches!"

"My…?" Tim looked down at his chest, and he suddenly appeared to grow even paler. "Oh god…"

"You'll be okay," Colin said, stepping back and wiping at his hands. "Can someone do his bandages? I think I'm just gonna go pass out over there, kay?"

Dick reached for the gauze, and Tim stared at him as if he had spontaneously combusted. "You tried to kill me," Tim said, blinking fast as Dick carefully went to applying the bandages. "You almost did kill me. What are you doing now, helping me? What's your  _deal_?"

Dick stared as the white gauze wrapped round and round the boy's ruined chest, and he frowned a little bit. Damian was standing close by, watching passively, as were the two girls. Colin had wandered to the blanket, and stretched himself out on it, still clutching Damian's slim gray cloak.

"I want to help," Dick said. He could see the younger girl beaming, while Artemis simply looked unimpressed. "I'm sorry I tried to kill you."

"Well," Tim said, his eyes rolling upward as Dick worked. "That just makes everything so much better."


	22. The Salvaged Kitten

**{the salvaged kitten}**

_-The flesh is ashes, the soul is flame-_

He'd awoken in a strange burst of pain, as if the world had gone pure white and numb for a split second after his laughter died on his lips, and then he'd awoken to the acrid taste of blood and smoke in his mouth. His throat was dry and raw from laughing and screaming, and his eyelids felt crusted over, sticky and heavy from tears and sleep. He was floating for a moment in a pool of icy water, and then he awoke to blazing pain. For a moment, he breathed and breathed and sucked in smoky air, blood trickling down his throat.

The sight of the assassin that had injured him earlier in the day was about as shocking as any other twist in his life. As in, not quite so much as it should have been. In truth, Tim was not easily surprised anymore. He was rather confused, and slightly irritated. And in pain. His chest was aching so badly that when he was pushed onto his back by a small redheaded child, he could do nothing but oblige because there was a rattling in his chest like ricocheting bullets, and his skin felt as though it was aflame.

"Sorry we don't have anything for you to drink," a small girl said, poking her head out from behind the assassin. Her face was round, and her skin was dark, and she had eyes that glittered like coals in the firelight. The assassin was maskless, and as Tim stared at him, he realized with horror that he was young. His face was very skinny, and his eyes seemed to be sad blue bruises inside the hollows of his head. His jawline was very sharp, distinct, as were the rest of his features. He had the face of a boy who had grown into a man in darkness, and so barely grew at all. And now that Tim looked, he looked vaguely familiar.

"It's okay," Tim said to the little girl. "I'm just glad to be alive right now. Do… do any of you have a phone?"

"Yeah?" A blonde girl pushed the littler girl aside, and she folded her arms across her chest. "Who are you going to call? Because we don't play nice with the police."

"Actually, we do," the younger girl said, smiling at Tim apologetically. "Artemis here, though, she has a record."

" _One_  night in juvie for assault," the blonde spat, looking aggravated. "And trust me, if you knew the guy, you'd have shoved him in a trashcan too."

"Does anything please you?" asked a small boy, the smallest child besides the dark skinned girl. Tim looked at him, and his eyes widened. His hair was short, but it still fell across his forehead in fluffy white wisps. His mind sent him back to the very strange encounter with Stephanie earlier, and how she was looking for a boy assassin called Ghost.

"I do, in fact, have a soft spot for watching douchebags roll down hills while trapped inside a garbage can," Artemis said. She was staring at Tim, but there was obvious hostility directed toward the white haired child. "It's really therapeutic, I should show you sometime."

The boy gave a soft scoff. "If you think you can take me in a fight, you are deluding yourself."

"Sorry," the younger girl whispered, sitting on the arm of the couch. "They've only known each other for like twenty four hours, and to be honest I think this could go on forever."

"What… is going on exactly?" Tim asked weakly as the assassin pinned his bandages and stood up straight. "I mean, you guys are kids. Well, most of you." Tim gave the assassin a level glare, and the man simply looked away. There was a hint of shame glowing in his sad eyes. It made Tim feel guilty, and he thought about Stephanie. _So many assassins_ , he thought, running his hands through his hair and wincing in pain. His bandages went taut, and he took a deep breath, trying to level his breathing.

"Welcome to the Rabbit Hole," the assassin said quietly, his head bowed. "I'm… sorry. This isn't how I expected things to turn out, and…" He looked around, and Tim stared at him, puzzled by his actions. "I'm not sure how any of this will turn out, to be honest."

"I'm Nell," the littlest child chirped, offering out her hand. "That's Artemis, and over there, the guy who stitched you up? That's Colin. Or, Abuse. He goes by that on the street sometimes. We mostly call him Colin though. That's Ghost over there, but his real name is—"

"None of your business," Ghost snapped. The child was wearing sunglasses, which struck Tim as odd, but he didn't care all that much.

"Ghost," Tim repeated.  _Stephanie needs this boy to stay alive_ , Tim thought, staring at the child.  _He tried to kill Jason. So did the assassin. But they're helping me. They saved my life. What the hell is going on?_  "You tried to kill Jason. And another friend of mine. God, please tell me everyone here isn't an assassin."

"Me and Colin aren't?" Nell offered, still smiling her sweet, innocent smile. Tim looked to Artemis, who was glaring at Nell fervently.

"You know, at the rate you're telling everyone," Artemis said through gritted teeth. "I might as well just wear a tee shirt that says,  _property of League of Shadows_!"

"Well," Ghost said, folding his arms across his chest. "Not yet."

"Not yet  _what_?" Artemis asked, rounding on the tiny boy, her eyes flashing.

Tim watched curiously as the boy remained unfazed. "You're not property of the League of Shadows," Ghost said, his tiny shoulders rising and falling. "Not yet."

"And what about you?" Tim asked, looking up at the assassin who was responsible for the still very, very painful gash on Tim's shoulder. "Are you a Shadows guy too? Sent to drag Ghost back?"

"I'm not part of the League of Shadows," the assassin said.

"Drag me back." Ghost's attention was stuck on Tim, and there was a strange sensation creeping up Tim's spine. "Drag me back where? Who are you?"

"Can I please make a phone call?" Tim asked, directing his attention to Artemis, struggling to pull his suit back up onto his shoulders. It had been unzipped to below his navel, and it was barely hugging his hipbones. Artemis studied him warily, and Tim bit his lip. " _Please_? I need to call my mom, okay?"

"You mean Catwoman?" Artemis asked, folding her arms across her chest. Tim didn't answer, and she gave a short snort. "Yeah, your costume isn't exactly unrecognizable, bud. But, It's been a weird week, so I really don't care anymore who the hell stumbles in here."

"God, who  _are_  you people?" Tim found himself exasperated and wondering. What if this turned out horribly, and he was in a worse situation now than he'd been when he'd fought the Joker? And admittedly failed horribly…  _Shit_ , he thought, his eyes widening.  _Bart, I forgot about Bart_.

"We just saved your worthless life," Ghost said, his voice lowering darkly. "I am beginning to question why."

"Well, thanks?" Tim took a deep breath, trying desperately to calm his nerves. "I need to call my mom, though, she's going to think something horrible happened to me."

"Something horrible did happen to you," the assassin said, blinking at Tim's face with a strange expression. His eyes sparkled with a sprinkle of childlike innocence, as if he was surprised that anyone was speaking to him, and he wanted to bask in it. Tim felt suddenly awful for hating him so much.

"Yeah, well." Tim zipped up his suit, wincing a bit at the pain that spiked through his chest. "It could have been way worse. Um…" He struggled to get the right words, and he felt awkward and confused. "Thank you, though. Really. I don't even want to imagine what could have happened to me out there."

"Undoubtedly something grotesque," Ghost said.

He sat in thought, trying to understand his situations. Four children, one adult, three assassins, two… civilians? None of it made sense. And yet, it was the apparent situation. Tim was growing increasingly puzzled by the fact that _this stuff was happening_. It was fascinating and strange and bewildering. Also, slightly terrifying.  _Why assassins? Why are there so many damn assassins in this city right now?_

"So…" Tim rubbed his neck, his teeth gritting in pain as he felt the loosened skin. He'd torn at his throat when the Joker had gotten him with laughing gas, and now that he looked, his silver claws were crusted with dried blood. "You guys tried to kill Jason." He looked between the assassin and Ghost, and he rubbed his chest out of irritation. "Why exactly is that? You know, if you don't mind my asking?"

"That is our business," Ghost said, raising his chin high. "What you should be concerned about—"

A dog began to bark, and Tim struggled to push himself to his feet. He stared at the dog for a long moment, and then he gave a short, disbelieving laugh. " _Titus_?" he gasped, hobbling forward to get to the beast of a Great Dane. He felt the assassin grasp his arm and steady him, and Tim gave him a long, pensive stare before he turned back to the barking dog.

Colin bolted up straight, his pale face glowing in the firelight. "Titus," Colin said, his eyes wide. "Dog's name is Titus?"

"Um, the better question is," Nell said dubiously, "you  _know_  him? Are you his owner? Why do you let him out so late, it's really not good for him, he might get sick!"

"Nell, priorities," Artemis sighed.

"Titus, what are you doing here?" Tim asked, ignoring the children. In truth, he wouldn't have recognized the dog if not for the collar, which had been something Selina had given Bruce when he'd taken in the dog. Tim had seen the dog around, and taken him for walks while Selina and Bruce did their… thing. And Tim blinked as the dog barely acknowledged his presence, and instead kept barking vigorously. That gave Tim a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Dog… is yours?" Ghost asked, sounding very small.

"No, no," Tim said, shaking his head, gripping the assassin's shoulder and wincing a little as he shifted his weight. "Not mine. Uh, I used to watch him sometimes. For Bruce Wayne."

The little boy seemed shocked into silence, and Tim glanced at him as Titus continued to bark wildly. Tim felt the assassin holding him go tense, and he blinked at the child, wondering what on earth he could be thinking.  _Bruce Wayne_ , Tim thought.  _That's got your attention_. Ghost opened his mouth to speak, but the door burst open, and the force of chilly wind blew Tim stumbling backwards.

There was a shocking blur of red as the kids in the room shrieked, and Ghost unsheathed a katana at his hip, his head snapping from side to side trying to follow the blur. Tim blinked rapidly as the assassin was knocked completely out from beneath Tim's fingers, his body slamming into the opposite wall as the blur skidded to a stop beside Tim.

"Don't touch the cat, buddy," Flash said, jerking a finger at the injured assassin. The man laid limply on the floor for a moment, the dent he left in the wall sending a jagged crack slithering up the wall. Tim stared at it, and looked up at the ceiling. There was a gaping hole just above the fire pit to let the smoke and fumes out. It looked incredibly dangerous, with the floorboards from upstairs jutting out of the chasm.

"That's the Flash," Nell whispered, her dark eyes growing so big and awed, and her mouth agape in shock, she looked rather like a fish. Then she grabbed Artemis's arm, and she shook the girl excitedly. "That's the Flash, like  _the real Flash_! This is so cool!"

"Um, he just knocked Talon into the wall," Artemis said, sliding her hand away with plain disgust scrunching up her features. "Not so cool."

It was then that Tim, as he struggled to the couch, noticed Ghost. The small boy had engaged the Flash in a fight, and… was holding his own remarkably well. For a half-pint with a sword against the fastest man alive. Tim could still hear Wally laughing though, as he zipped between the boy's blurring blade strokes. Tim leaned against the couch, watching with a prickle of curiosity as he watched the small boy try and try and try to land a blow, his tiny body jerking fast and lunging and swerving, barely missing flames. Tim swore aloud as he saw the long white robe the boy wore beneath his tunic catch flame, and Nell gave a little shriek.

"Ghost! The fire, it—"

The assassin had gotten there first, appearing behind the boy and grabbing him by the shoulders to settle him down before stomping out the flames. Ghost craned his neck up at the assassin, and gave a curt nod, before shrugging him off and going back to vainly slashing at the Flash. Tirelessly. The kid had a lot of stamina, Tim would give him that much.

"Yeow," the Flash said, dodging swipes easily. "You still awake? Dang, I thought I put more juice in that slam. Oh well." He ducked a blow from Ghost's blade, and Tim watched in complete awe as the boy landed a hit. The Flash didn't seem fazed, as it was only a graze to his back, and the boy had obviously been aiming somewhere else, but damn. The kid was more impressive than Tim initially gave him credit for.

"Okay, not nice!" Flash wrenched the sword away from the child, and in that brief moment of pause the boy elbowed him in the stomach. "Ack! Didn't your mother ever teach you not to play with sharp things?"

The boy gave a noiseless cry of rage, kicking at air as the Flash zipped away, and a dark figure loomed in the doorway. Tim stared, and he saw a pair of luminous green eyes glowing in the darkness. Tim listened as Titus began to bark again, and then he began to snarl, his body coiling in tension. Tim felt dizzy with all the movement as Starfire flew into the room, flinging starbolts at the assassin, who had been moving in sync with Ghost to try and slow the Flash down.

"Don't!" Tim gasped, watching the assassin fly across the room, his back crashing against the opposite wall, and the resounding  _crack_  that echoed through the room was spine tingling. Tim watched in horror as the crack in the wall that had precariously crept up to the ceiling spiderwebbed across the face of it, and he listened to the floorboards above them creak as cement and paneling gave way.

He immediately looked to the kids, who were all huddled up on the couch together, looking rather terrified. "Move!" Tim gasped, reaching for them as the ceiling above crumbled and fell.

The couch had been pushed away in the last moment, and Tim was slammed onto his back by the force of the ceiling caving. It was only the area around the hole, but even still the crumbling wood ignited the dimming fire, and Tim blinked away stars as he watched the flames creep upward and upward, crawling away from the pit and around the splintered boards littering the ground. The kids were all stumbling to their feet, the couch laying on its back, and Tim felt someone pull him to his feet.

"Starfire, those kids—!" Tim gasped.

"Yes, I understand," she said softly. "But you are first."

"Forget about me!" Tim fought at her, stumbling back and clutching his chest. "Get the kids! I'll be fine!"

Tim heard the sound of struggling, and he saw the assassin pinned under a slab of debris. He was slipping out from under it, but the fire was creeping closer, and Tim coughed and blinked through the smoke and flames. "Flash!" Tim called. The man was still fighting Ghost, who just would not give up. When they both turned, and Ghost saw the assassin pinned down, a roaring fire drawing closer, he looked frozen in place.

"Grayson…?" Tim heard the boy utter in shock. He was scooped into Starfire's iron grip while in his frozen state, and Tim watched him struggle and shriek as he was flown out of the building, disappearing from sight.

"Alright," Flash said, the assassin— Grayson?— half-slung over his shoulder. "Let's get the hell out of here."

The flames were roaring, and Tim looked around, feeling the devastation creeping in as the fire swallowed up the ceiling, and Tim was dragged backwards by Starfire, who was talking to him, but the snarl of fire crackling and hissing was too loud for him to hear. He held onto her weakly as he was dragged from the burning building, stumbling into the snow and coughing and rasping, the whip of wind and ice slamming into him as his body racked. He was dizzy and sickened, clutching Starfire's hands as he tried to pull himself to his feet.

"Wait…" Flash said, cuffing Grayson, who stood in a sad sort of silence. He was staring at the empty alley with a strange sorrow. "We did not just misplace four kids."


End file.
